Gods and Heroes
by Farky-fark and the Munky Bunch
Summary: An age of peace dawns in Skyrim under its new rulers; those who fought for her freedom seek a new purpose. Beyond her borders another war begins and the Reachmen stand ready. In her skies, Alduin the World-Eater fulfills a prophecy of old. The Dragonborn must turn the tides of Fate and the mortals of Nirn must turn to the gods or condemn the world to burn. Sequel to Blood and Iron.
1. Prologue

**A/N:** Hello, all. Welcome to the third and (semi)final chapter of this trilogy. Also, Merry Christmas! As was the case with _Blood and Iron_ , this first chapter is going to just be a quick, loose "prologue" to get you up to speed with where we left everyone. As for a posting schedule, I'm going to get out the first six on the next six Mondays, one each week, and then after that it'll be back to every other Monday for the foreseeable future. I hope you're as excited to get this final story rolling as I am and I hope you enjoy! As always, many thanks to my beta reader (and sister) **GrowlingPeanut**. Reviews are appreciated.

 **Disclaimer:** Everything belongs to Bethesda Softworks and George R. R. Martin.

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In Arya's last chapter, Ulfric and his Stormcloaks marched on Solitude and defeated the Imperial Legion once and for all, executing General Tywin Lannister after the battle. And now... (Continued in chapter 5)

* * *

In Jaqen's last chapter, he traveled to Apocrypha through a Black Book and met Hermaeus Mora. After telling him to complete his Dark Brotherhood contract, the Daedric Prince agreed to a deal for Arya's soul. And now... (Continued in chapter 6)

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In Sandor's last chapter, he and Dany met with Delphine's agent in Solitude, Malborn, and prepared Daenerys for the Thalmor party. And now... (Continued in chapter 4)

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In Sansa's last chapter, a fixed Kingsmoot was held to "elect" Ulfric Stormcloak as High King of Skyrim. And now... (Continued in chapter 2)

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In Drogo's last chapter, he and Dar'Jazha traveled to the Thalmor Embassy only to be captured and thrown into Elenwen's dungeon before being rescued by Dany. And now... (Continued in chapter 9)

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In Daenerys' last chapter, she and Sandor left Drogo behind to go to Riften at Delphine's urging. When they arrived they found the Blades' scholar, Esbern, deep in the Ratway Vaults. And now... (Continued in chapter 1)


	2. The Knowledge of the Blades (Dany I)

**A/N:** Nothing to add from what I said in the prologue. Just read on and enjoy! **  
**

 **Disclaimer:** Everything belongs to Bethesda Softworks and George R. R. Martin.

 **Rating:** M for some violence, language, and references to death.

* * *

 _"There is no Dragonborn."_

 _The voice was taunting, issued from between teeth as sharp as daggers, beneath eyes as red as flame._

 _Dany looked about, disoriented. She could hear Alduin's voice, but it was far above her, and this time, she was not in the sky with him. Instead, she saw a three-headed dragon facing him, dancing with him as they flew beneath the stars._

 _"Your brother was weak and foolish."_

 _As he spoke, one of the heads erupted into flame, scattering to ash that fell and coated her pale skin._

 _"Your child an unborn monster."_

 _The second began to wilt, raining blood upon her. She tried to move, but she was frozen, unable to breathe, to scream, to run._

 _"And you, you Dovahkiin...are young and trusting. You do not understand what it is that you must face and what it is that you must sacrifice to face it. You too will fall."_

 _With a roar, Alduin wrapped his talons about the third neck of his foe, tearing and twisting until it was torn free from its body._

 _His eyes blazed as it crashed to the ground, and she heard his voice in her mind as she was crushed beneath its weight._

 _"You too will die."_

Dany woke with a strangled gasp, her chest heaving as she struggled to breathe beneath an invisible weight. She couldn't remember what she had dreamt, but a terrible chill had taken hold of her and she shivered at the lingering sensation of fear.

Though Esbern had been eager to return to Delphine, they had bided their time in his cell, deep within the Ratway, waiting for the sun to set. They all had reason to fear being recognized, and the cover of night would allow them to escape without drawing unwanted attention.

Dany took a deep breath and glanced about, reacquainting herself with her surroundings. Sandor dozed in the corner and Esbern stood opposite. He spent much of his time sorting through his belongings and placing what he deemed necessary into a large burlap sack, but every few seconds, his eyes would flit back to Daenerys and she felt her skin prickle beneath his scrutiny.

Unlike Delphine, Esbern seemed to have no doubts about her claim. He asked for no demonstration to prove her abilities, and kept his questions to himself, though a fascinated curiosity burned in his eyes as he watched her.

When he caught her gaze, he nodded in satisfaction and hefted his sack over one shoulder.

"If you're awake then we shouldn't delay any longer. I have much to tell you once we're safe in Riverwood."

Dany nodded sleepily and rubbed her eyes before nudging Sandor's foot with her own. He didn't look particularly pleased at having been woken, but when he saw that Esbern was ready to depart, he grudgingly stood from his seat and adjusted his sword belt.

Although they were all anxious to escape from the city, they moved quietly and cautiously through the tunnels of the Ratway, glancing over their shoulders with each step. They were nearly to the door into the vaults when they heard the sound of footsteps and Sandor drew his blade.

He motioned for Daenerys and Esbern to stay silent and carefully approached the hall from which the noise had issued. A moment later, there was a cry of surprise, followed by a soft thud. When Sandor returned, his sword was red with blood and he held a crumpled note in his hand. With a grim expression, he handed it to Dany.

 _Description of Target:_

 _Breton female, nineteen years of age with silver hair and lavender eyes. Likely to be enquiring about Esbern and the Ratway._

 _Do not approach. Inform your assigned contact immediately if spotted._

She felt her chest tighten with fear, and Sandor met the question in her eyes with a nod. "Aye. The Thalmor. It has to be. They're already on our trail."

"We must get to Riverwood quickly," Esbern said emphatically from behind them. "We will be safe with Delphine."

Though his expression grew dark at the innkeeper's name, Sandor nodded, and as he turned toward the door nearby, he looked back to Dany. "Be prepared to fight."

On their way to Esbern, there had been few Thalmor in the vaults, but when they reentered, there were dozens patrolling its halls. With careful timing, they were able to avoid many, but not all, and they shoved the slashed and arrow-filled bodies unceremoniously into the shadows before hurrying on their way.

The thieves in the Ragged Flagon watched them as they passed through, all eyes on Esbern as he shuffled along behind the Dragonborn and her companion. For decades he had been hiding in the depths of the Ratway, and finally, his time had come again.

Masser and Secunda shone high in the sky as they emerged into the city, and Dany found herself standing before what had once been her home. She remembered so clearly what her former life had been, and yet as she stood looking at the keep, dragon's blood in her veins and her bruises no more than faint memories on her skin, she felt as though she had never lived it.

"Come on, girl," Sandor urged gruffly. "You don't have time to reminisce."

Nodding, she continued on, and they were nearly to the city gates when a Khajiit leapt from the shadows. She grabbed Daenerys before any of them realized what was happening, and as she lifted her dagger to the young woman's throat, Sandor swore and drew his sword.

"Don't move," the woman warned the sellsword. "The Thalmor are willing to pay a great amount of gold for these two." She jerked her chin toward Esbern and then dug her knife deeper against Dany's neck for emphasis. "Leave them to me and I will let you go free."

The young Breton's heart hammered in her chest and she struggled to still her mind. When she had been taken by the thief outside of Ivarstead, she had been able to free herself with what meager hand to hand combat that Sandor had managed to teach her. But that had been a roadside thief, and Dany doubted that the Thalmor had hired such unskilled fighters to bring them in.

She took a shaky breath, and when her thoughts cleared somewhat, she heard an echo in her mind. _Spirit._ Almost without thought the word formed on her lips and when she spoke it, it issued forth as a Shout.

 _"Zii!"_

For a brief moment, her body seemed to flicker and when the Khajiit jerked the dagger in surprise, it merely passed through the ethereal figure that remained. Reaching for the blade at her waist, Dany turned, and as her body returned once more, the Thalmor agent stared in incomprehension at the knife protruding from her chest.

She lie sputtering and bleeding on the ground, and it was only when Sandor regained his senses that she earned the mercy of a swift death.

Dany's hands trembled as she looked from her dagger to the dead woman, and Esbern stared at her in awe.

"By the gods," he murmured. "To see it with my own eyes..."

Nearby, the flicker of candlelight lit up the window of one of the homes along the street, and Sandor swore under his breath.

"That didn't go unheard, girl. We need to get out of here, now."

Still shaking, Dany nodded and she tucked the dagger back at her hip. _"If you're going to be doing your own killing, you had best get used to the sight of blood,"_ Sandor had told her, and though she knew it was true, the realization of her actions still left her shaken. This had not been the reanimated dead of Ustengrav, or a Thalmor torturer in possession of her husband. This had been a woman turned by the lure of the coin. Dany wondered if she had a family.

She felt a hand at her elbow and looked up to see Sandor standing before her. "There's no time for remorse, Dany. If you hadn't killed her, she would've killed you. That's the way it has to be."

Taking a shaky breath, she nodded her head and let him guide her out the gates, Esbern trailing along behind them, the would-be-assassin's knife at his hip.

They retrieved the horses from the stable and Dany shared her saddle with Esbern. If he insisted on traveling with them beyond Riverwood, they would invest in another horse, but for the moment, their safety was of more concern than comfort, and so they hurried on, following the coast to avoid the watchtowers along the main road.

A small farm rose up to meet them not far from Riften's walls, but its inhabitants were still far from waking, and so they continued on quickly and quietly, praying to the Divines that they would make it to Riverwood before the Thalmor caught up to them.

"Do the Thalmor know you're Dragonborn?" Esbern asked, breaking the silence between them.

Though Dany shook her head, Sandor snorted. "They do now. If you think those two were their only agents, you're a fool."

That returned them to a tense silence, and every few steps, Dany glanced over her shoulder, sure that she saw shapes moving in the shadows of the forest.

They were nearly an hour from Riften when they saw the smoke of a nearby fire, and Sandor signaled for them to stop. After motioning for his companions to stay where they were, he quietly dismounted and made his way toward the camp, sword in hand.

Dany and Esbern waited, trying to no avail to make out the murmured words of conversation. After a moment, the sellsword returned, his blade clean, but his coin purse light.

"Hunters," he said by way of explanation as he swung onto Stranger's back and nudged him onward. "Unless the Thalmor offer more coin than I did, they'll keep them off our trail for a time."

It was dark but for the light of the moons as they rode on, and after the hunters' camp, the forest was empty and still save for the occasional wolf or bear, all too wary of the travelers to attack.

They were just passing a clearing when Dany spoke, quietly. "Alduin."

At the sound of the dragon's name, Esbern grew suddenly alert, and Sandor looked warily to his employer. Silently, she nodded her head toward the clearing. Barely visible through the trees was the telltale stone-rimmed circle of a dragon burial mound, but like the one in Kynesgrove, it lie empty.

Dany shivered at the memory of Salohknir's revival, and she looked warily to the skies, praying to Akatosh that his children were somewhere far away. They listened for the sound of leathery wings, or the roar of the dragon tongue, but heard only the disgruntled growl of a nearby cave bear, and so they continued on.

Tired from their pace and her nightmare-addled sleep, Dany dozed in the saddle, and when her hazy eyes saw a pale glow through the line of the trees, she thought it must be the rising sun, and hoped that Riverwood would be close. As they rode nearer, however, she realized it was the blue light of a familiar farm, and a wave of sadness washed through her.

She had still been just a girl when she had met the Sarethi sisters, only married for a few short days, and still so ignorant of the world. They rode past the graves that Drogo and Dar'Jazha had dug, and she spoke up, her voice as distant as her thoughts.

"There was a massacre here. A family was killed and we stopped to bury them. Drogo thought it might have been at your hand."

Sandor huffed irritably at that. "I've killed women and children before, but not these. I don't leave them to rot."

Dany nodded. At the time, she would never have imagined that she would one day travel with the Hound at her side, nor that he would be anything other than the ruthless and cruel warrior that he was made out to be.

The waters of Lake Geir rose to meet them just as the sun appeared over the horizon, and by the time they followed its shore to the nearby mountain town, the sky was alight with the pale hues of sunrise.

Daenerys gazed longingly at Ivarstead's inn as they rode past, but Sandor shook his head. "They already know us. If we stop here, the Thalmor will have reason to suspect them of aiding us, and they aren't kind to those who get in their way."

"What about the horn?" she asked, turning her gaze toward High Hrothgar, seven thousand steps away. Esbern followed her stare, and mumbled something under his breath that didn't sound particularly friendly.

"They'll have to wait," Sandor replied, and Dany had a feeling that he didn't mind forcing them to do so.

The Darkwater River greeted them as they rode down from the village and though Stranger plodded dutifully across, it took a bit of convincing for Dany's mare to cross the swirling waters.

Once past, they began to wind their way down the mountain, following the signs for Whiterun. As they approached the edge of a cliff, Dany nudged her mare closer and she gasped quietly at the view below. She could see for miles, watching as the river sparkled far below from between the pines and curls of smoke issued from the homes nestled in the snow-topped hills.

It was a beautiful country, and more than ever, she longed to see her true home. The fields of Stormhaven had been stained dark with blood as she and Viserys fled and it would be the same when she returned, with the blood upon her hands. Breaking away, she continued on, and Sandor followed.

Before long, the blue of the sky was interrupted by the heavy stone of Valtheim Towers, the bandit camp that they had crossed with Delphine on the way to Kynesgrove.

They approached cautiously, and when the sound of their hoof beats were heard from the towers, a woman moved to stand in the center of the road, the same they had encountered before.

"You," the bandit called out, eyes narrowed. "The pregnant wench and her sellsword, isn't it? And an old man with you now?"

Dany nodded slowly in reply, casting a glance toward Sandor. He shrugged slightly, but his hand had traveled to the hilt of his sword.

"I told you my price wouldn't be so low on your return, and I meant it. Toll's risen to four hundred gold." She bared her teeth in a grin. "And if that's too steep a price, we're happy to take it from your corpses."

Her hand was at her hip the moment that Sandor's blade left its scabbard, but before the sellsword could swing from his horse, Esbern's voice rang out.

"Do you know who this woman is?"

The bandit hesitated for a moment, appraising Daenerys once more. "Should I?"

"She's the Dragonborn," Esbern replied, his voice strong and eyes bright. "The legend born and come to life. She has the power of the dragons within her, and if you seek to end her life, her brothers will avenge her death, with fire."

The woman looked doubtful, but a hint of fear glinted in her gaze, and as she raised her sword once more, a loud roar echoed through the countryside. A telltale shadow fell across the small party, and though the beast continued toward the mountains, it was enough to let them pass as the woman dropped her blade and fled in terror.

Though Esbern had been lying, and they all knew it, there was the briefest hint of doubt in the eyes of the two men as they looked to Daenerys and she felt a strange satisfaction rise in her chest. Without a word, she turned and rode on. After a moment Sandor nudged Stranger to do the same.

The few people they passed on the road to Whiterun looked wary and afraid and though they had slight smiles to offer the travelers, their eyes remained on the skies.

"Honningbrew Meadery," Sandor commented idly as they passed the brewery at the juncture of the path to Riverwood. "Some of the best damn mead in Skyrim is made within those walls." Esbern nodded in agreement, but Dany just frowned and wrinkled her nose. She liked sweet gold wine far more than the preferred drink of the Nords.

It was an hour more on the road before the roofs of Riverwood rose from between the trees, and the travelers passed off their horses and made their way to the Sleeping Giant. Delphine was inside, once more in the garb of an innkeeper, and with a broom in hand, and she turned at the sound of the door.

"Mara's mercy..."

Esbern stepped forward and a smile lit up his wrinkled face. "Delphine. I...it's good to see you. It's been...a long time."

Delphine returned the smile and pulled the old man into a tight embrace. "It's good to see you too, Esbern. It's been too long, old friend. Too long."

After a moment, she pulled away, and her expression grew schooled once more as she turned toward the man at the bar. "Orgnar, hold down the bar for a moment, will you?"

The young Nord shrugged. "Sure."

Nodding in satisfaction, she gestured for them to follow her, and Dany glanced about to make sure no one was watching them before withdrawing into Delphine's hidden room below the inn.

"Now then," the innkeeper was saying as Dany descended the stairs. "I assume you know about..."

"The Dragonborn," Esbern replied, his gaze on the young Breton. "Oh, yes. This changes everything, of course. There's no time to lose. We must locate..." He trailed off and then swung the burlap sack from his shoulder with a frown. "Let me show you. I know I have it here, somewhere, give me...just a moment."

After a fair amount of rummaging, he emerged with a book in hand, and he placed it on the table between them. Across the front in silver script it read _The Annals of the Dragonguard_ , and after flipping through its pages, he settled on one and jabbed his finger against it.

"You see, right here. Sky Haven Temple, constructed around one of the main Akaviri military camps in the Reach, during their conquest of Skyrim."

Delphine raised her eyebrows and looked to Sandor and Daenerys. "Do you know what he's talking about?"

As Esbern shushed them, they shook their heads in unison, and Delphine frowned.

"This is where they built Alduin's Wall," he continued. "To set down in stone all their accumulated dragonlore. A hedge against the forgetfulness of centuries. A wise and foresighted policy, in the event. Despite the far-reaching fame of Alduin's Wall at the time—one of the wonders of the ancient world, truly—its location was lost."

Delphine sighed heavily and crossed her arms over her chest. "Esbern, what are you getting at?"

His eyes lifted from the book and he looked between his companions with a frown. "You mean...you don't mean to say you haven't heard of Alduin's Wall? Any of you?"

When he was met with nothing more than blank stares, he sighed. "Alduin's Wall was where the ancient Blades recorded all they knew of Alduin and his return. Part history, part prophecy. Its location had been lost for centuries, but I've found it again. Not lost, you see, just forgotten. The Blades archives held so many secrets...I was only able to save a few scraps..."

He trailed off and after a moment, Delphine gently nudged him back to life. "So...you think that Alduin's Wall will tell us how to defeat Alduin?"

The old man shrugged at that. "Well yes, but...there's no guarantee, of course."

The four of them exchanged a series of glances, and in the end, it was Dany who spoke. "Sky Haven Temple it is then."


	3. A New Life (Sansa I)

**A/N:** Hey. Not much to say for this one. I started writing it way back when ESO was doing the New Life Festival event cause I thought it was pretty fun, so that's incorporated in here and will be in future chapters too to help establish the timeline and bring in some good ole holiday lore. As always, many thanks to my beta reader (and sister) **GrowlingPeanut**. Reviews are appreciated.

 **Disclaimer:** Everything belongs to Bethesda Softworks and George R. R. Martin.

 **Rating:** M for mentions of abuse and rape and some suggestive content.

* * *

For the sake of theatricality, Ulfric declared that the coronation would be held at the dawning of the new year, nearly a fortnight after the Kingsmoot. The soldiers who had fought for the Empire were given a choice: swear their allegiance, or be executed for their treason. Those who did not bend the knee or lose their heads fled to the border of High Rock. Few made it, and fewer still survived beyond.

When the day finally came, it was clear and bright. Though the frenzy of the Kingsmoot had settled, a new wave of enthusiasm swelled with the beginning of the New Life Festival, and so the coronation was held at a time of great excitement, not only in Skyrim, but all across Tamriel.

Sansa stood before her looking glass, admiring the handiwork of her gown. The change of royalty had kept Taarie and Endarie busy and her armoire was full of many fine gowns, each befitting a separate and grand occasion. The coronation gown was a deep, rich purple, as could only be worn by the highest of royalty, and for once, she was glad to be wearing something other than blue and gold, though it was still not the grey and white that she longed for. Nor the yellow and black of the tiny hand-sewn clothes hidden beneath her mattress.

"The New Life Festival."

She lifted her gaze to find Ulfric in the mirror's reflection, leaned against the doorway. When their eyes met, he walked to stand behind her.

"It's fitting. This year will bring new life to Skyrim and her people. It will be a new life for us as her rightful rulers." He wrapped his arms around her and placed his hands over the still barely evident swell of her belly. "And it will bring the new life of our child. My heir. The people are right to celebrate."

Sansa stiffened in his embrace. With each day that the babe continued to grow, she became increasingly loathe to endure her husband's touch. Three moons ago, she had thought she would have a new life of her own. A better life, with Sandor at her side. So much had changed, and in the face of her suffering, the whimsical festivities seemed grotesque and perverse.

She remembered the celebration in Winterhold as a child. Dressed only in their thin nightshifts, she and Arya had followed after their older brothers, sputtering and giggling as they plunged into the icy waters of the Sea of Ghosts. Catelyn had waited beside the bonfire with baby Rickon, smiling at her children's antics. Those had been days of joy and laughter, and any hopes of a new life had been far from their minds.

"Yes, my lord."

He smiled in satisfaction at her agreement. "Elisif will come get you when the time comes." He kissed her and ran a thumb across her cheek. "You will make a beautiful queen."

* * *

Sansa had wandered once more to her mirror when Elisif arrived. She checked her figure often, waiting for the day when she would grow large with Sandor's child. That thought was the only thing left to keep her from attempting anything drastic.

"Are you ready?" the former queen asked softly. In the aftermath of the battle, Lady Elisif had been ordered to gather her things and leave the halls of her former home to the man who had once killed her husband. Though she no longer lived in the palace, Ulfric kept her near, in part for her to mentor the new queen, and in equal measure to revel in his victory over her.

"I suppose I must be," Sansa replied with a sigh, turning to face the older woman.

Once, when she was but a girl, and Torygg's new bride, she had been called Elisif the Fair, but grief had taken its toll on her features and her age was evident in the lines that creased her once smooth skin. Had Catelyn Tully lived, she would have been of an age with Elisif; the thought made Sansa's heart ache.

Elisif smiled gently as Sansa walked to her side. "You're a brave woman, Sansa. Your mother and father would have been proud."

Though Sansa returned the smile, she doubted that that were true. At seventeen, she was married to a man who had once been a friend of her father's, subject to his cruel whims. And now, as she was being crowned High Queen, she carried the Hound's bastard child within her. It was not the life that they would have wanted for her, no matter how glamorous it might seem to those who fell for Ulfric's smiles and lies.

"Ulfric has allowed me to remain within the city for a time," she continued, leading Sansa toward the throne room. "To teach you the duties of a queen."

Sansa sighed. She was tired of duties. So far, they had brought her nothing but pain and shame. _Family, duty, honor,_ as the Tullies said. She had recited those words on the night of her wedding, but they had not given her strength, and she had not been spared.

Ulfric was waiting for her just beyond the throne room, and Elisif handed her over to her husband with a slight nod of deference. He was dressed in regalia that matched her own, and when she slipped her hand into the crook of elbow, he bent toward her and whispered beside her ear.

"The Hound could never have given you this." His smile was vindictive, and triumphant.

Sansa's resolve faltered at the mention of her late lover and she tried to keep the tears from her eyes as they walked together into the room which Fate had led them to.

The hall had been lavishly decorated in the colors of her husband's house, and there was satisfaction and pride in his eyes as he surveyed the crowd that had gathered, easily numbering in the thousands. The palace doors had been opened for the occasion, and the people of Skyrim flooded its halls. Even beyond the doors, the crowd stretched on, nearly all the way to Castle Dour. People pushed and shoved in their attempts to reach the palace, and those within were packed so tightly that there was hardly room to move.

A few high nobles had been allowed onto the balcony of the gallery and among them stood Jon and Arya. The former stood stern with his jarl's circlet upon his brow, but Arya gave her sister a small smile from beneath the helmet of her gilded armor, now that of a Snow-Hammer following the battle for Solitude.

A bard from the College stood beside the queen's throne, and when they entered, he lifted his flute and played the opening chord of the Bear and the Maiden Fair. A hearty round of laughter issued from the crowd at the jest, and even the Stormcloak Bear seemed to grin from its place above the thrones.

Sansa did not join in. She had sung that song in Morthal, what felt like a lifetime ago. Sandor had been drunk and he frightened her with his words, but that night on the docks there had been an honesty and vulnerability to him that had surprised her. It was the night she had begun to fall in love with him.

Opposite the bard, next to the king's throne, Ralof stood in the Stormcloak colors. He had been named Ulfric's Thane following the end to the war and had accepted the position graciously.

Sansa and Ulfric moved to sit on their respective thrones, and Elisif settled between them, behind the table upon which rested their crowns. Though they had been given at the Kingsmoot as a symbol, they were removed swiftly after, to be kept safe until the coronation. Ulfric looked at Torygg's crown with greed.

"It is Lord and Lady Stormcloak who stand before you now," Elisif began. "The liberators of Skyrim and those who claim her throne." Her fingers brushed across what had once been her husband's crown, and though her eyes glistened with tears, she kept her composure. "The Moot was called, and the people gave their answer."

She lifted the delicate silver crown to her left and placed it on Sansa's brow.

"May the Divines be witness this day."

Slowly, she fitted Torygg's golden crown on the brow of the man who killed him years before, mere feet from where he now took his throne. Beneath the lavish carpet there was a stain in the wood which could never be scrubbed clean.

"And may you be lord and lady no longer." She stepped back and motioned for them to stand. "Rise, and may the people look upon their rulers, the High King and Queen of Skyrim."

* * *

Rather than pull away from the crowd as it swarmed toward them, Ulfric embraced it, a victorious smile on his face as the commoners fought to even touch the edge of his cloak. He announced to those gathered that the New Life festivities would begin, and that as a citizen of Skyrim, just like them, he would join them.

Sansa stood silently beside one of the bonfires that burned around the city, watching as people leapt from the nearby cliffs and into the waiting waters of the Karth River.

Ulfric was among them, and she was not blind to the stares of the women as he emerged from the water, his bare chest glistening in the light from the flames. _They can have him_ , she thought bitterly. Though he was still a handsome man by most accounts, at five-and-forty he was past his prime, and she couldn't help but compare him to her former lover.

Sandor may not have been a handsome man, but his body had been sculpted by years of fighting and the thought of his large and muscular frame sent an almost forgotten heat to the pit of her stomach—a sensation always lacking in the presence of her husband.

Ulfric interrupted her thoughts as he came to her side, and the flush faded swiftly from her cheeks as he wrapped his arms about her waist.

"It's a shame that you can't join in the festivities," he said, one hand moving to her belly. "If it wasn't for the babe, I would command it. The men I lead deserve to see you as I do." There was a gleam of lust in his gaze and for a moment, Sansa feared that he might demand it despite her pregnancy and strip her bare in front of a hundred witnesses.

Instead, he left her again, and as Sansa watched him laugh and drink with their subjects, her expression grew dark.

 _Someday, I will be free of him, and_ that _will be the day that I begin my life anew._

Until then, she would wait, and bide her time.


	4. The Time for War (Lancel I)

**A/N:** Sorry for being late. Had to head back to campus for the spring semester and I've been moving into a new apartment and spending some time with my boyfriend before he has to head back home. This chapter is a short one, really just a little filler chapter to update some stuff and help line things up time wise and whatnot. So yeah, it's a little Lancel chapter. Since it's not much I'll still go ahead and post ch. 4 on Monday and then again, just to remind anyone, I'll keep posting weekly through ch. 6 and then switch to bi-weekly from there on out. As always, many thanks to my beta reader (and sister) **GrowlingPeanut**. Reviews are appreciated.

 **Disclaimer:** Everything belongs to Bethesda Softworks and George R. R. Martin.

 **Rating:** T for mild sexual references and implications of incest.

* * *

Lancel Lannister did not conform to the expectations that his house name had placed upon him.

General Tywin Lannister was the leader of the Imperial Legion's assault on Skyrim, a feared and impressive man. Jaime Lannister was a formidable fighter as a younger man, said to be nearly equal to the Hound in his skill with the blade. Tyrion Lannister owned what had once been one of the most popular inns in the country, and it was said that his wits rivaled even those of Lann the Clever. Even Cersei Lannister, Jaime's twin sister, had been sent to High Rock as a young woman and there became Queen at Robert Baratheon's side.

But Lancel, unlike his cousins, had avoided the war effort. He was an Imperial living in Skyrim, though he had no allegiance to the Empire and the Thalmor, and so he stayed neutral. By the end of the civil war, however, he had become more deeply entrenched in the country's strange affairs than he had anticipated.

Five years before he had delivered his first letter, with news of Torygg's murder and Eddard Stark's execution. Then, the rise of the Stormcloaks and the march of his cousin's men from the Imperial City. And now, within only three moons, the news of Sansa Stark's abduction, of the Hound's and Robb Stark's deaths, of Ulfric's wedding, and now, just days before, of his formal ascension to the high throne.

The young courier was careful to never damage the letters in his care and each was received with its wax seal still unbroken. He had, however, learned that if the sun was high enough, and the ink dark enough, he could read much through the parchment.

Adjusting the satchel of letters at his hip, he pulled his hood low to hide his Lannister features and swung atop his horse. It would be a long ride this time, all the way from Karthwasten to the palace nestled in the hills of Stormhaven, far across High Rock's border.

The letter he had been sent to deliver was written on dirt and blood stained parchment of a strange leathery quality, and had been sealed with a plain white wax, upon which was pressed the image of a jagged blade. The words he could make out were 'Khal', 'Targaryen', and 'throne'.

There was only one man in Tamriel known as Khal, and though the countries beyond Skyrim's borders knew little of the Forsworn, their leaders were nervous to hear the caravan master's name whispered alongside rumours of a growing army, and a coming war. Lancel had a feeling that the words within would make them far more than simple rumours.

He was able to make it across Skyrim's countryside without incident, but was stopped by the Stormcloaks patrolling the border to High Rock. Following the Kingsmoot, many of the former Imperial soldiers had tried to flee from Solitude's chopping block and there were reports of soldiers still hiding in the forest that lined the border.

Ulfric's men held nothing but suspicion for the blond, green-eyed courier, but he stayed firmly atop his horse as they harassed him, withdrawing a scroll from his satchel and handing it over. The words within declared him to be a neutral party to the war, now over, and was signed by the new High King himself.

After a moment of conference, the men allowed him past, and he smiled in satisfaction as he continued on to the neighboring country. The signature was a forgery, of course, but the locals would hardly know that, even the ones who had fought beneath Stormcloak's banner. Lancel had delivered many a letter in the rebel leader's hand and he had learned his script well.

High Rock was a beautiful country, even in winter, and he couldn't blame the young Lady Targaryen for wanting to return to her home. He too had entertained similar thoughts, but in Cyrodiil, the Lannister name garnered even stronger feelings and he had tired of the Imperial City's endless politics.

Ordinarily, he would not have ventured beyond Skyrim's border, but the fur- and bone-clad woman who had given him the letter had made him promise under threat of death that it would not change hands, and would be delivered directly to the king. And so, on he rode.

The palace in Wayrest was not as ornate as Solitude's Blue Palace, or even the Palace of Kings, but looked rather more like Castle Dour, an immense fortress high above the city, its walls thick and the Baratheon stag hanging proudly from impressive battlements.

In contrast to its exterior, its halls were extravagantly lavish and Lancel felt suddenly conscious of the mud on his boots and the roughspun wool of his clothing as he approached the throne.

At the end of the long hall, the Usurper sat upon his throne, not the strong and handsome warrior he had been in his youth, but a fat man, and one who reeked of wine. At his side, Cersei Lannister was still as beautiful as she had been sixteen years before, though there was a glint of cruelty in her eyes that had been absent as a child.

Once, when Lancel was hardly more than a boy and still lived in the city of his birth, she had taken him into her bed. It had been nothing more than an attempt to rebel against her father's order for her marriage to Robert Baratheon, and it had been clear that he had not been the first man between her thighs, but he still colored slightly as he stood before her once again. He could tell by the way she looked at him that she did not remember him, or if she did, that she did not care.

"Who are you, boy?"

"Lancel Lannister, your grace," he declared, dropping his hood about his shoulders and bowing low. He thought he saw a glimmer of interest in the queen's gaze, but it faded just as swiftly, and he was left wondering if he had simply imagined it.

"Lannister?" The king echoed. "Here to see my wife are you? It's been many years since her brother Jaime graced our halls. I dare say she might appreciate a substitute, even if it is one of inferior quality."

Cersei's cheeks colored at her husband's words, though she did not look embarrassed, if that was what he had intended. Instead, she looked angry, furious even. Lancel spoke up quickly.

"No, your grace. I come with a letter, from a Forsworn of the Reach."

"Skyrim is it? That letter has come a long way. Very well, give it over."

Obediently, he withdrew the letter and passed it to the king, who examined the seal for a moment before breaking it and reading the words within.

As he began, his expression was almost one of amusement, but as he continued, it steadily darkened, and when he reached its end, Lancel almost feared that he would choose to stab its messenger.

Robert Baratheon was quiet for a long moment, and then he stood, his voice booming. "Slynt, gather the goldcloaks in the yard. It seems that Daenerys Targaryen is alive and seeks to claim her throne." His hands clenched at his sides and his dark eyes burned bright with rage. "If it's a war that she wants, then it's a war she'll get."


	5. Lost but not Forgotten (Sandor I)

**A/N:** Hey, no notes for this one I don't think. Just read and I hope you enjoy. As always, many thanks to my beta reader (and sister) **GrowlingPeanut**. Reviews are appreciated.

 **Disclaimer:** Everything belongs to Bethesda Softworks and George R. R. Martin. Except for Ma'ahni and Vanyrra.

 **Rating:** M for strong language, consumption of alcohol, some violence/gore.

* * *

Delphine wanted to leave the moment that Esbern finished speaking, but when she received weary looks from her three companions, she conceded to remaining in Riverwood for three days, but no more. They could take the time to rest and recuperate, and then be on the road once again at the break of dawn Middas morning.

Dany spent most of the time in her room, reading the books that had been left there or writing letters to her husband that always ended up crumpled and unfinished.

Esbern looked over every scrap and shred of information that Delphine had gathered in her secret room, scrawling pages and pages of notes across the leather-bound journal he kept at his hip.

Delphine, for her part, prepared for her permanent departure. The time for the Blades had come again, and her life as an innkeeper was over. Orgnar took the news of his promotion with a mere shrug, and Delphine busied herself with the paperwork to sign over the inn.

And Sandor found himself at the mill once again, helping Hod split logs and chop firewood for Riverwood's residents. The older man was grateful for the help, but his wife Gerdur held an innate suspicion for the man who so closely resembled a former Imperial soldier. Though she, and everyone else in Skyrim, had heard of the Hound's death, there was a hint of doubt in her gaze when it met his—and fear.

Though it was nearly a week from the turn of the year and the winter chill had settled into even the southernmost regions of Skyrim, Sandor found that he didn't mind. The warmth of the inn lulled him into a sense of comfort and safety, and that led to thoughts and memories still too painful to entertain.

The four companions kept mostly to themselves, for each had more on their mind than the journey to Sky Haven Temple. Delphine's paranoia and distrust of the Thalmor kept her peering about every corner. The validation of Esbern's research kept him buried deep in pages of notes. Dany still grieved for her lost son, and thought wistfully of her husband, far from her side once again. And Sandor's anger kept him occupied with fantasies of driving his blade into Ulfric Stormcloak's heart.

On the night of the third day, they each emerged from their own separate worlds, gathering their things and preparing to depart at dawn. For a time, their individual ambitions had to be set aside. After all, the fate of Nirn was at stake.

* * *

"Hurry up, Clegane. We need to be off."

Sandor shot a snarl and a muttered "Fuck off," at the back of Delphine's head, and continued to take his time checking Stranger's hooves. The courser had been bred for war, not for the tedious and seemingly endless travel through the wilderness that he was being subjected to. The same could be said for his ill-tempered master.

"It'll take us out of our way," Delphine continued, one hand over her eyes as she scanned the horizon. "But if we try to cut straight west, we'll have to go through the mountains. That's more likely to delay us than going another way by the roads."

Daenerys nodded in agreement as she climbed atop her horse, and Sandor grudgingly followed her lead, mounting Stranger and nudging him forward to take the lead.

The road before them was the same which Dany had traveled on in her escape from Helgen, and she took in her surroundings with a distant expression as they made their way briskly along the cobblestones. Though merely two moons before, it felt as though a lifetime had passed since then. And perhaps it had. A new age was dawning, and the world was moving on.

As they approached a fork in the road, the lingering darkness of the sky was pierced by a brilliant beam of light, emitted by one of several stones beside the path.

"The Guardian Stones," Esbern piped up from Dany's side. "Representing the star formations belonging to the Mage, the Warrior, and the Thief." He nodded toward the latter, from which the light was being channeled. "The Thief rules the sky in Evening Star, and bestows a blessing upon those born beneath his stars."

Sandor eyed them warily, wondering what true power the guardians held. The Divines and Daedra did little for men and mer; he supposed the same would be true for those who ruled the celestial plane. Even so, he looked to the warrior who had shone at his birth with something akin to hope. _Warrior, give me the strength to save her._

They traveled west at the fork, following the carefully carved sign for Falkreath. It was early enough in the day that they met few other travelers, but there were plenty of mistrusting eyes that peered at them from the underbrush as they passed.

A cave had just appeared beside the road when a roar issued from within and a territorial troll charged through the ivy to meet them. Still healing from her last encounter with one of the beasts, Dany recoiled and her horse whinnied loudly in alarm as Sandor and Delphine drew their swords.

The creature lunged for Stranger's flank and the warhorse responded by rearing onto his hind legs and lashing out with his hooves. Sandor shifted easily in the saddle and swung his sword around to slash at the three beady eyes, earning a cry of pain.

Delphine's blade was red as she drew it back, and with a final angry roar, the troll retreated, lumbering back to its cave in defeat.

"You alright?" Sandor asked, cocking his eyebrow at his pale and shaken companion.

Dany nodded weakly, one hand still resting absently over her heart. "Fine. Surprised is all."

He nodded curtly in reply and Delphine looked ready to say something before thinking better of it and keeping silent.

The rest of the way toward Falkreath passed without event and the sun was just beginning its descent as they reached the fork that led to the city gates. Without hesitation, Delphine turned toward the path on the left, and it was only when Sandor loudly cleared his throat that she stopped and turned.

"Where do you think you're going?" he asked, though it sounded more like a warning than a question.

"Onward toward Skyhaven Temple," Delphine replied irritably.

"With dusk already approaching? It'll be full dark in a few hours' time and we won't be even halfway there."

"Afraid of the dark are you, Clegane?"

He scowled. "We may have been soldiers, but they aren't and never were. We're traveling with an old man and a girl more than half your age. We should rest at an inn while we still can."

"We're traveling with a member of the Blades and the bloody Dragonborn," Delphine spat. "If they can't handle riding at night then we might as well abandon all this and let the world burn."

The tense silence that followed was broken by the hoof beats of Esbern's horse as he trotted down toward Falkreath's gates. "I would rather like a pot of stew and a featherbed, Delphine," he called amiably over his shoulder. "If you'd like to continue on without me, I suppose I would catch up eventually."

For a moment, the woman looked positively furious, but she controlled her expression swiftly. With a final glare at the sellsword, she pushed past him and followed Esbern, ignoring his friendly taunt as she rode to his side.

"Skyhaven Temple won't walk away before we reach it, my dear."

Sandor let out a heavy sigh as he nudged Stranger forward and Dany responded to it with a sympathetic glance. He supposed she was the one truly being manipulated by the Blades and their quest, but he couldn't help feeling equally put upon.

Dany looked almost nervous as they made their way into the city on foot, and at each turn she looked about for Legion soldiers, despite the news from Solitude.

She did not remember Falkreath with any kindness, but she kept her feelings to herself, staying silent and withdrawn as they helped themselves to the stew given to them by the innkeeper. When they had finished eating, she retreated to her rented room, with Delphine and Esbern not long after.

Sandor stayed in the common room well after dark, nursing a bottle of dark, strong mead. He had managed to keep himself from the drunken stupors of his disreputable past, but he wasn't sure that he could cope with Delphine without the aid of strong drink, nor with the invasive thoughts of Sansa and their child.

His musing was interrupted by the sound of footsteps behind him, and when he turned with a glare, it was Delphine that met his gaze.

She eyed him evenly for a long moment before holding out a hand for the bottle in his grip. He hesitated before passing it over, and stayed silent as she took a long pull. He had nothing to say to her and had no interest in hearing anything she might have to say to him.

In the end, she spoke, and her tone was dark as she did. "It seems Fate has dealt us a losing hand." He cocked an eyebrow and waited for her continue. When she did, it was with a nod toward Daenerys' door. "After so many years, she is the savior that the gods have sent us. A highborn lady, all but a child. She is too soft, and too kind."

He opened his mouth in her defense but Delphine shook her head and passed the bottle back to him, effectively earning his silence. "Mark my words, Clegane. It matters not what we find in Skyhaven Temple. The world is coming to its end, and there is nothing that we, or she, can do to stop it."

* * *

Sandor's dreams were those of years past, of fire and of death, not only his, but all of Nirn's. His sleep was troubled, and when he roused himself before dawn, it appeared that the same had been true for his young mistress and the two Blades at their side.

Weary but determined, they returned to the road, beneath the heavy fall of rain. The horses trudged dutifully up the muddy path from the city gate, obeying their masters as they were guided in the direction of Skyhaven Temple. It would be a long day's ride, and one that would evidently be made in silence.

After Delphine's ominous words the night before, Sandor had continued to drink and his head throbbed angrily in recompense. When a roar echoed from above the clouds, his skull threatened to split in two, but he managed to regain his senses with enough speed to yank Stranger to a halt.

Delphine was already off her horse with her sword drawn when the beast descended, and Sandor swore loudly as he stumbled from his saddle.

"Die, foul beast!" Delphine cried, hacking fiercely but ineffectually against its scaly hide. Esbern remained atop his horse, watching the dragon with almost reverent awe, and Daenerys stood nearby, her bow drawn but her expression one of fear and hesitation.

"Aim for its eyes, girl!" Sandor yelled as he finally wrenched his sword from its scabbard and made toward the dragon's wings. With a slash of his blade he tore through the leathery skin and the beast roared in anger, attempting to return to the sky. It made it a few feet into the air before crashing to the ground again, its wing torn and bleeding steadily.

Delphine took the opportunity to slash at its head, and one of its horns was severed by the blow, earning another cry of pain and rage from the fallen creature.

It was righting itself and opening its mouth to spew whatever foul magic it possessed when one of Daenerys' arrows whistled through the air and buried itself in one of the dragon's rolling eyes. Frigid air gushed from its gaping maw, but its aim was hindered as it shook its head wildly, disoriented and in pain. Its roar of anger was near deafening as Dany fired again, hitting her mark once more as the beast writhed in agony.

Its cries echoed through the hills, and it was only as its skin began to emit a now familiar glow that they were certain of its death. Dany, still standing with her bow drawn was enveloped in light and when the bones and scales that remained fell to a pile beneath her feet, she dropped the bow, leaned over, and emptied her breakfast onto her boots.

Her three companions stared as she continued to retch, Esbern with awe, Sandor with half-hearted concern, and a heavy wince, and Delphine with thinly veiled disgust.

"I always dreamed that the legends were true," Esbern muttered to himself. "But to see it with my own eyes…I didn't think I would live to see this day."

"Come on," Delphine interrupted brusquely. "We're hardly out of the city and it's still at least half a day's ride to the temple."

Wiping her mouth with the back of her hand, Dany nodded weakly and retrieved her fallen weapon. As his three companions started off, Sandor hesitated, looking at what remained of the dragon. He cast a glance toward Daenerys and eyed her mismatched armor critically before turning back to the pile of still smoking bones and scales.

Bending down, he took one of the scales in his hand and hefted it experimentally. It wasn't as heavy as he might have expected, but it would likely take a good number of them for what he was considering. All but four had crumbled to ash in whatever strange ritual transferred the beast's soul to his young companion and he gathered each of them, placing them atop Stranger's saddle for a moment as he rummaged in his saddlebags.

He heard his name called from up ahead and responded with a shouted, "Keep riding, I'll catch up!" His search yielded a few thick cords of leather at last and he pulled at them before grunting in satisfaction and lashing one of each of the scales to the cords' ends. Once he was satisfied with the tie, he slung the two cords, weighted on each end, over Stranger's saddle and mounted after a few stumbling attempts, head still pounding.

After taking a long pull from his waterskin and waiting for the throbbing to subside somewhat, he patted Stranger's neck and nudged him onward toward the other horses. The warhorse whickered in response to his master's touch and Sandor sighed. "You like having a load don't you?" he asked. "Finally feel like you're being of some use other than carrying my arse around every corner of Skyrim?"

Stranger snorted and Sandor chuckled in reply, patting him affectionately once more before urging him on faster. When he met up with his companions again they were riding through a thick grove of evergreens, Esbern chatting amiably to keep away the silence. Daenerys still looked queasy, but she managed the occasional smile and nod at his words.

"You have to empty your stomach too?" Delphine asked snidely as Sandor rode up beside her. "Too much mead?"

"I could drink you under a table without breaking a sweat," he sneered back, the burnt corner of his mouth twitching in irritation.

"No doubt," Delphine countered mildly. "But I wouldn't be so daft as to try to match you. You obviously don't know when to stop."

His responding glower was dark, and had Esbern and Daenerys not been a few feet ahead he would have leapt from his saddle and torn her barbed tongue straight from her head.

"There's a tower up ahead," Dany called back, directing their attention from their feud.

"Most likely bandits," Delphine replied, leaving Sandor behind and riding to the front. She scoped out the crumbling tower through the thinning trees and then nodded grimly and pulled her horse to a stop. "Esbern, you and the Dragonborn stay here with the horses. Clegane and I will take care of this."

Grudgingly, Sandor dismounted and handed Stranger's reins over to Dany. As she took them, the courser leaned forward to snap at her hand and Dany flinched. Swatting his flank, Sandor gave Stranger a look of disapproval and he answered with a disgruntled huff as his master followed Delphine toward the tower.

As she had suspected, it was populated by a small group of bandits, but, arriving on foot they were able to take them by surprise. His blade wet with blood, Sandor's mood brightened somewhat and he forced open a locked gate at the tower's bottom level while Delphine explored the winding staircase. Inside were a few coin purses which he emptied quickly into the one at his belt along with a few shimmering gemstones and a loose pile of septims. A bounty like that could at least get him drunk for a week.

"Anything of value?"

He shrugged and popped open the chest in the corner, withdrawing a quiver of glass arrows and several bottles filled with a thick reddish liquid. They looked like the potions of health that alchemists brewed, so he gathered them up and then followed Delphine back to the horses.

The former innkeeper had gathered a fair amount of food from the barrels on the upper levels and she distributed it between the four of them as Sandor passed Dany the arrows and shoved the potions into his saddlebag.

The sun had risen high above them and Delphine squinted up at it for a moment before swinging into her saddle. "Come on. If we pick up our pace we might make it before sundown."

The road was quiet as they continued on. Once, it would have been patrolled by Stormcloaks and Imperials alike, but now, it was empty and still. The Stormcloaks had abandoned their forts and gathered in Solitude for the upcoming coronation. He had heard someone in the inn the night before mention that it was to be held in two days' time, on the first of the new year and for the start of the New Life festival. He had wondered absently, already deep into his second flagon of mead, if this might be the year that finally brought the new life he desired.

A commotion from farther up the road broke the silence and as they rounded a bend in the path, a caravan appeared before them, hundreds strong with its wagons full and creaking as they rolled along.

Daenerys gasped audibly at the sight and was out of her saddle in mere moments. She ran clumsily in her armor, her laughter carrying over the bustling of the caravan. "Ahkari! Ma'ahni!"

The two Khajiits at the front met her halfway along the road and the child wrapped her arms around Dany as she knelt to pull her into a tight embrace.

"What in the Divines is this?" Delphine grumbled.

Sandor shot her a glance and then dismounted and walked after Dany. "Her husband's caravan."

"We have heard rumors of you, Khaleesi," Ahkari was saying as he approached. "The Nords call you _Dovahkiin_ , but the word is strange to us and foreign."

"I do not know how to explain it to you," Dany admitted. "For I do not understand myself, in truth. But I am safe and alive, and that is what matters."

The Khajiit trader nodded in agreement and then frowned, her ears flattening slightly atop her head. "Has Khaleesi heard from her Khal, or from Dar'Jazha? It has been nearly a moon since they left us, and still no word."

"We saw them," Dany replied eagerly. "In Solitude, just over a week ago."

Ahkari brightened at that and Sandor broke his silence. "Your husband said he misses both of you and thinks of you often. He has tried to write but with your traveling he was afraid his letters might not have reached you."

He had no guarantee that that was true, but he had enjoyed the company of Drogo's partner in Solitude while their companions had been occupied and he had seen a pain behind the laughter in his eyes that he knew all too well.

Ahkari took his hands between her paws and gave him a grateful smile. "Thank you. Your kind words will get me through the nights until I see him again."

Sandor nodded, somewhat uncomfortable and turned his gaze to the child still clinging to Daenerys. She had one hand atop her head and the other protectively around her shoulders. She would have been a good mother, and no doubt she saw what might have been in the family before her.

"We have to keep moving." Delphine appeared behind them and Ma'ahni's ears flattened at the prospect of being separated from Dany again. As Drogo's wife, she was closest thing to her father that she could manage and she was loathe to let her go.

"Esbern says we're nearly there."

Although Dany nodded obediently, Sandor couldn't help but cast a sidelong glare at Delphine, which she was pleased to return.

"Keep yourselves safe," Daenerys said, gently pulling Ma'ahni from her side and casting a soothing hand over her grey fur.

"You as well, Khaleesi," Ahkari replied. With a parting smile, she took her daughter's hand and returned to the caravan. They watched in silence for a moment as they began to roll onward, but Delphine cleared her throat pointedly and directed them back to their horses.

As they approached, Esbern looked up from the map across his lap. "It isn't much farther now," he said cheerfully. "No more than two hours longer until we reach Karthspire. That's where I believe the temple is hidden."

Sandor sighed and swung up into his saddle. "You'd best pray to the Divines that you're right."

When they reached Karthspire the sun was just beginning to set and the deep reds and purples of the sky illuminated a sprawling camp before them, its tents made of rough, bloodied leather and its borders ringed with stakes which held the heads of goats and men alike.

"Gods damned Forsworn," Delphine muttered, watching as several of the warriors patrolled the wooden docks and bridges that made up the camp.

Esbern looked almost frightened and Sandor loosened his sword lest he need to use it. Dany, however, watched them with a thoughtful curiosity. In the end, she spoke quietly.

"Let me go to them."

Delphine turned her head, her expression one of disbelief. "Are you mad? The Forsworn are savages!"

Daenerys shook her head. "They are my people, and they will be my army when I return to take my rightful throne. They will let us through."

Delphine and Esbern stared at her in confusion and Sandor snorted. They had been so focused on her power as the Dragonborn that they had neglected to think of who Daenerys Targaryen truly was, and the realization dawning across their features was rather amusing.

Without waiting for a reply, Dany slid to the ground and after a moment of hesitation, looked up at Sandor. "Come with me." He nodded, acknowledging her unspoken "just in case", and followed her down to the docks, his hand ready at his side.

The first Forsworn that spotted them had his bow drawn in an instant and leveled at Daenerys' head. There was a madness that burned behind his steady gaze and Sandor wondered how much of the rumors about them were true. He had heard they ate human flesh, and that was certain to turn a man mad in the end.

"My name is Daenerys Targaryen," she said shakily, extending her empty palms. "I am the wife of Khal Drogo, and rightful queen of High Rock. I ask that my companions and I pass through your camp to Sky Haven Temple peacefully."

A brief moment of silence met her plea, but then the Forsworn pulled his bow taut and Sandor had his sword drawn in the same instant. Just as the arrow whistled past them, a voice called out.

"You dare draw your bow on Khaleesi of the Forsworn?"

A vague shadow stalked through the growing darkness, jagged swords in each hand and as it approached the Forsworn hunter before them it raised the twin blades and removed his head from his shoulders in one quick motion. Sandor heard several quiet murmurs rise from among the others and Dany swayed slightly on her feet before regaining her balance and swallowing thickly, keeping her eyes from the trail of blood steadily seeping into the wood beneath them.

It was a woman who walked toward them and in the dim light of the torches around the docks Sandor could see that her eyes were as black as pitch, and her face decorated in red lines too dark to have been made from any kind of paint. A sick sensation rolled through his stomach, and he knew that this time, it wasn't the mead.

"Why has Khaleesi come to us?" she asked, her voice flat and words strangely stilted. "Your Khal is not here. He was called away and has not yet returned."

"I seek entrance to Sky Haven Temple," Dany replied, her voice trembling. "For myself and my companions. My throne must wait, and so too must my army."

The woman stepped closer and Sandor's eyes fell to her chest, where the ragged cut of her leather armor revealed a gaping hole and an unnatural heart within. His breath caught in his throat and for a moment, his grip on his sword weakened. He had heard Drogo speak of the Briarheart woman who had killed the former leader of the Forsworn, but he had not truly believed him. He thought the Briarhearts couldn't be anything more than legend—and yet, he had once though the same of the Dragonborn.

Dany seemed to come to the same realization and she gasped quietly, the woman's name a whisper on her lips. "Vanyrra."

Vanyrra eyed the two of them for a long moment, her head cocked slightly as though in deep thought. Finally, she nodded and turned to the Forsworn who had gathered behind her.

"Let them through. Any who thinks to harm Khaleesi or her companions will not live long enough to see their blood feed my blades."

She turned back toward them and then looked through the blackness of the falling night to where Delphine and Esbern were waiting. Her voice was loud enough to carry and after a moment, they had joined them on the dock, the former looking wary and the latter afraid.

"Go then, Khaleesi. When you return to us we will fight for you."

Dany nodded her thanks and they passed through the Forsworn, across the sprawling camp to the entrance of a nearby cave. If Esbern's research was correct, and if the Gods were willing, they would find Sky Haven Temple within, yet another legend that would soon come to life, long lost but not yet forgotten.


	6. Closure (Arya I)

**A/N:** Hey, sorry it's getting late for posting day. I had two job interviews this afternoon and then played a bunch of Portal 2 and got distracted. But I'm here now with chapter 5 so here ya go. As always, many thanks to my beta reader (and sister) **GrowlingPeanut.** Reviews are appreciated.

 **Disclaimer:** Everything belongs to Bethesda Softworks and George R. R. Martin. Except for Valgeir.

 **Rating:** M for some suggestive content, and use of drugs.

* * *

For what felt like the thousandth time, Arya rolled over onto her back, pulled the furs to her chin and stared up at the ceiling. Her room in Solitude still felt foreign, even after a fortnight. She had been given one of the officers' rooms on the upper level of the barracks in Castle Dour, alongside Ralof, Valgeir, and several others she recognized but couldn't name.

With a heavy sigh, she threw aside the furs and stepped onto the cold wooden floor. The festivities of the New Life festival were still in full swing and she could hear the echoes of gleeful cries from her chambers, keeping her from sleep. The room was illuminated despite the late hour and Arya knew that if she approached the window, she would see Masser and Secunda at their peak.

It had been too long since she had last been hunting. Not since her time in Windhelm, when Jaqen had still been with her. It still brought an ache to her chest that reminded her of what she had lost, and yet, she felt as though she was living a lie, hiding in the darkness each time the moons rose full in the night sky.

Wrapping herself in the furs from her bed, she quietly slipped from her chambers and down the hall, past the sound of heavy snores and into the main barracks. With silent footfalls she made her way out into the yard of Castle Dour, raising her head to the moons and reveling in the sudden rush that ran through her veins.

Slipping out of the city past the patrolling guards, she flexed her claws and howled as her blood roared in her ears. She chased after a rabbit trying in vain to hop through the dense snow and tore it open, its blood hot on her tongue and its guts steaming in the snow. For a moment, she allowed herself to imagine hunting something more than the wildlife of Skyrim. She would stalk across the throne room of the Blue Palace, tearing apart anyone who dared to stand in her way, until her claws were wet with the blood of Ulfric Stormcloak.

Once, she had created a list in her mind, as she trained to become an assassin. _Gendry Waters, Tywin Lannister, the Silver Hand, the Hound._

Three of them were dead now. Gendry Waters had died by her hand, apologizing with his last breath for the pain he had caused her. She had cried over his corpse, Vilkas' ring in her palm, and when she woke to his words in her head, her eyes were still wet with tears. _"Vilkas. He…he knew. That—that you loved him."_

Tywin Lannister had died beneath the executioner's axe, his head on the same block as her father's, so many years before.

And the Hound...he too had died at the order of Ulfric Stormcloak. She added his name to her list because she had been sure that Jaqen was lying, and that he'd taken Sansa by force. If she hadn't heard it from Sansa herself she would never have believed that she could have fallen in love with him. He was harsh and brutal and horribly scarred, and yet Sansa spoke of him as kind and gentle and loving. Everything that her husband was not.

Now, her list had changed. _Ulfric Stormcloak_. She growled, filling her mouth with warm, fresh meat. _Rorge_. And yet still... _The Silver Hand_.

Though the Imperial Legion had been crushed, there were still some who supported its cause, and she had no reason to believe that the Silver Hand had faded with Lannister's death. They had hunted her kind beyond their fortress at Gallows Rock and perhaps they remained in other places, silver swords sharp.

She loped through the snow toward the sound of the still echoing laughter, settling on her haunches to watch the festivities continue. On the darkened shoreline she caught sight of a young couple, laughing and splashing through the freezing waters with their smallclothes abandoned on the rocky beach. They kissed beneath the light of the twin moons, and Arya wondered what it was they hoped for in their new life.

As a child she had wished to be a warrior. The fiercest in all of Skyrim. When Eddard Stark was sentenced with treason and she fled the walls of Solitude, she wished for a family. That, she had found in the Companions, and as she dragged Vilkas along to the Snow Bear Plunge, she had wished for nothing. She had been happy then, as happy as she'd ever been, and there was nothing that the New Life festival could bring her.

In the year since, she had lost all of that. And what had she gained? She was a warrior now, a Snow Hammer in the private guard of the High King. She had a family, a half-brother to the north, a sister who was only a shell of the girl she remembered, a niece or nephew who would be a bastard and a false heir.

She had Jaqen, a man who she was too afraid to love. She had said the words to him, lest she relive her past and never have the chance, but Vilkas still remained in her heart. She loved them both, and though she knew it wasn't fair to either of them, she couldn't help it. One she could be with in life, the other in death, and though that frightened her, she also longed for it desperately.

Her blood cooled with her racing thoughts and when she felt the chill of the ice on her bare feet she left the couple behind, returning to the castle walls and wrapping herself in her discarded fur, now wet with melting snow.

She was nearly to the barracks again when she heard a voice from behind her. "Celebrating the festival?"

Valgeir was leaned against the outer wall with a pipe between his lips. When she approached, his eyes ghosted across her bare shoulders and he grinned, blowing smoke through his teeth.

"Are you just being indecent now to prove you're a woman?"

She snorted and shrugged, adjusting the furs to cover all but her neck and head. "Can't have you all getting confused about it again."

Valgeir chuckled at that and she shook her head to answer his initial question. "I'm not really interested in the festivities. Just couldn't sleep and thought the fresh air might clear my head."

He nodded at that and inhaled slowly before blowing out another puff of smoke and temporarily clouding his features. "I couldn't either. Things are too…peaceful now. I'm feeling restless."

Arya nodded in agreement and reached out for the pipe. He handed it over and when she inhaled only to promptly sputter and cough he laughed and took it back.

"I spent so much time fighting in that gods damned war and then too long in that Imperial prison. Now that I'm out, but not fighting, I can't seem to decide what to do with my time." When she nodded once again, he continued. "I never thanked you properly for saving me."

"Saving you?" she echoed. "You saved me. If you hadn't come back when you did my corpse would be rotting on the floor of Fort Neugrad."

He shrugged and exhaled slowly. "I suppose we're even then."

Arya nodded. Her gaze drifted from his across the yard of Castle Dour and an idea slowly began to take shape. "Valgeir?" He grunted around the pipe. "Do you have access to the old tactical wing?"

His eyes followed hers and he thought about it for a moment, a smirk spreading across his features. "Ulfric hasn't given me a key, if that's what you're asking. But...I could get us in."

Arya answered his grin with one of her own and Valgeir snuffed out his pipe before following her across the yard. If there was supposed to be a guard on patrol, he was suspiciously absent and they were able to reach the door of General Lannister's former tactical wing without difficulty. After a quick glance around, Valgeir took a few steps back and then planted his foot firmly against the wood, splintering it with a loud crack as the door flew open. Arya's mouth hung agape for a moment and he snorted.

"What did you think I was going to do? Pick open the lock? I'm not exactly the roguish type."

Shaking her head, Arya followed him through the entryway. Inside, it was dark. The torches along the walls hadn't been lit since the Battle for Solitude, and a thin layer of dust had settled over the sconces.

"What are we doing here anyway?" Valgeir asked curiously, ducking beneath a doorway as he trailed along behind her.

"I'm looking for something," she murmured vaguely, moving into the closest room and looking about. What she was looking for exactly, she couldn't say. But, if the Imperial Legion had kept any information about the Silver Hand and their whereabouts, it was bound to be somewhere among the maps and charts in this tower.

Her fingers trailed along the spines of the books that lined the shelves, but none of them had titles that suggested anything which might be of interest.

Leaving Valgeir to flip through the haphazard stacks of paper on the room's central table, Arya began to ascend the winding staircase, stopping at the first hallway and making her way into each of its rooms.

Ulfric had ordered a few of his soldiers to look through all of Lannister's tactical notes for anything of interest and burn the rest, and the mess that met her in each room suggested that the task had been started and then abandoned, likely around the time that New Life had begun.

Once, it would have been meticulously sorted and organized, but now, everything was mixed together in loose stacks or jumbled piles of books and it made her search all the more difficult. It was when she reached a middle room on the top floor that she found something promising. Tucked amongst a tall heap of what appeared to be old battle plans were two thin books. One read _Physicalities of Werewolves_ by Reman Crex and the other, _The Totems of Hircine._

Arya vaguely remembered Vilkas speaking of the former. It was a book that detailed a thorough exploration of the physical traits of werewolves, as performed through torture on live subjects. He had spoken of it with disgust, and the thought of his eventual fate made her stomach turn unpleasantly.

When she pulled them out, the sheets of parchment stacked atop fluttered to the floor, but she paid them no mind. After thumbing through the first tome with no luck, she turned to the second and as she cracked it open, a folded piece of parchment slipped out. Bending down, she picked it up and laid it out across the table.

It was a crudely drawn map of Skyrim with a shimmering silver handprint in its top corner and several sketched in forts across the countryside. Frowning, she looked about for a moment before locating a nub of charcoal and returning to the map. She etched a thick black X over what had once been Gallows Rock and then squinted at the scrawled labels beneath the others.

 _Dustman's Cairn...Robber's Gorge...Bilegulch Mine...Driftshade Refuge..._

Dustman's Cairn had been swept by Jed and Farkas when the Harbinger had been a new recruit, Robber's Gorge by Kodlak before he had been killed, and Bilegulch Mine by Vilkas and her. That had been their first hunt together, and that night when he returned to his chambers she had been waiting for him. It was the first night they had made love; she wished she couldn't remember it with such startling clarity.

"Find anything?"

Valgeir's voice broke her roughly from her memories and she jolted back to attention, earning a slight quirk of his eyebrow. Clearing her throat she nodded and roughly scratched out the other three locations, leaving only one unmarked.

"Driftshade Refuge," she said, her voice quavering despite her best efforts.

He moved to her side and crossed his arms over his chest. "What about it?" He squinted down at the map and frowned. "What is this? The…what is that? Glittering palm?"

"Silver Hand," she corrected absently. "Another branch of the Legion; one that I doubt Ulfric knew about."

Valgeir raised his eyebrows and withdrew his pipe once more, absently tamping down some finely ground moonsugar before lighting it and sticking it between his teeth. "So are you saying they're still out there?"

Arya nodded. "I think so."

"And...you're going to take care of that?"

Again, she nodded.

"Need any support? Ralof can't as much as shit in his chamber pot without Ulfric knowing it but I might be able to sneak away for a few days. Give me something to do beside sit and get addicted to this damn stuff." He exhaled a puff of smoke to prove his point and looked at her expectantly.

For a moment, she considered accepting his offer. He was a good fighter, and she was coming to think of him as a friend. The journey to Driftshade Refuge would no doubt be one littered with fragments of her memories with the Companions, and perhaps his company would keep them at bay. Despite herself, she shook her head.

"This is something I need to do on my own. It's...personal."

He nodded silently, deciding not to pry. When he had pulled her armor off her wound in Fort Neugrad, he had seen the ring hanging down between her breasts. Although she had abandoned it when Jaqen returned to her, she had not discarded it. It remained in the small table beside her bed, and she had worn it to Fort Neugrad for luck. As if that had worked out in her favor.

"Then I'll stay here and cover for you in case Ulfric asks any questions." He smirked. "What shall I say? That you're stuck with your arse to your chamber pot after a bad horker steak? He'd surely stay away for fear of the stench."

Arya snorted in amusement and folded the map once more before clutching it against the still damp fur wrapped around her.

"Say whatever you need to. I won't be long."

He nodded and followed her in silence as they descended the tower and returned to the training yard. The missing guard had returned and he cast them a suspicious glance as they emerged. When he caught sight of Arya's bare shoulders beneath the furs, his expression shifted to one of knowing amusement and he gave Valgeir a nod. Arya rolled her eyes as Valgeir returned the nod and offered a parting jape.

"Just trying to bring about 'new life', eh?"

The guard chuckled and Arya cast a glare up her companion, who snickered quietly around his pipe. "Don't worry, m'lady," he teased. "I have no interest in what's underneath that pelt. I was more attracted to Arry Snow; the breasts ruined it for me."

She rolled her eyes again but couldn't keep back a chuckle. It was nice to have some form of companionship again. With Jaqen gone she had felt so alone, but Valgeir and Ralof were quick to include her in their gambling and drinking, rather than shying away as the others had when her identity had been revealed. And there was always Sansa, though there were things about herself which she could never admit to her sister.

Valgeir offered a parting wave as she returned to her chambers and she lit the fireplace along the wall before draping the fur in front of it and sitting on her bed. After a moment, she withdrew a sheet of parchment and a stick of charcoal from the table beside her.

 _Dear Jaqen,_

She tapped the charcoal against her lips and sighed.

 _The chambers I've been given in Solitude are far nicer than those I had in Windhelm, but the bed feels cold without you. I'm lonely sometimes, but not alone. Do you remember the soldier who saved my life in Fort Neugrad? He told me he visited me while I was still recovering in the Temple of Talos, and I know you never left my side. His name is Valgeir and he's becoming a good friend, as is Ralof, who was once close with my brother Robb. I still miss you and think of you often, but they make your absence more bearable, and I hope that you can meet them properly someday._

 _I'm going to leave in the morning and travel to Driftshade Refuge. A map I found in the old tactical wing of Castle Dour seems to suggest that it might be the last remaining stronghold of the Silver Hand. I know you would tell me not to go, and certainly not alone, but I think I have to, Jaqen. I don't think I'll ever forget Vilkas or what was done to him, but this might grant me some measure of closure, in a way that killing Waters couldn't._

 _I hope that the thought of me keeps you warm in Solstheim and that you can return to me soon. Whenever you can, I'll be here waiting._

 _-Arya_

For a moment, she considered applying some rouge to her lips and leaving a mark against the parchment, as she had seen other women do when writing to their lovers. It was silly though, and so she abandoned the thought, merely applying a glob of pale grey wax and sealing it with the wolf of House Stark. Sansa had commissioned the seal for her as a gift, and Arya knew how much it meant to her. With her sister bearing her husband's name and Jon that of his bastard birthright, she was the only Stark that remained, and it made her proud to bear the wolf of her family.

With a heavy sigh, she retrieved the mostly dry fur and curled beneath it. After a moment, her hand found the drawer beside her again and she withdrew something from the bottom of it. It was the sketch of Vilkas she had started so long ago, still unfinished, but with a familiar pair of paint-rimmed eyes and the crooked smile she had once fallen in love with.

"I'm going to kill the last of them for what they did to you," she murmured, rubbing a thumb along the parchment's edge. Maybe then, she could sleep without seeing his body consumed in flames.

Sighing again, she returned the drawing to the drawer alongside his ring, still hanging from its leather cord, and then rolled over.

As she closed her eyes she wished for closure, and then prayed to the Divines that they would grant it.


	7. The Grip of Oblivion (Jaqen I)

**A/N:** Hello, all. Hope everyone is doing well. I had a job interview this morning that I felt pretty good about, but no guarantees, so, prayers and crossed fingers. The only note for this one is to say that Jaqen's...abilities, I guess, that can come off as weirdly prophetic/telepathic at times, are based on the fact that he's a master of Illusion magick, and specifically on the "Vision of the Tenth Eye" Illusion spell in Skyrim. The description of its ability is "see what others cannot", so you know, nice and vague. But yeah, just for reference, that's where I'm pulling what he's able to do from. Other than that, no other notes to make really. So, as always, many thanks to my beta reader (and sister) **GrowlingPeanut**. Reviews are appreciated.

 **Disclaimer:** Everything belongs to Bethesda Softworks and George R. R. Martin.

 **Rating:** T, probably.

* * *

Jaqen tried to fall asleep again after he was forced from Apocrypha, but every time he closed his eyes he saw Arya dead in Hermaeus' halls, her empty eyes squirming with tentacles as the Prince of Fate laughed cruelly from the inky sky above.

If only Solara had known what she was doing when she sent him to Solstheim. This was not just about a contract. Not any longer. It had become a battle for his sanity, and his lover's soul, a battle which they both might lose.

He sat up abruptly, pushing his hair from his face and sighing. He doubted that he would be able to fall asleep, no matter how hard he tried. For a moment, he eyed the bottle of mazte beside his bed. The Dunmer drink was far heavier than what he was used to and he supposed that a few bottles might be enough to push him into an unconsciousness devoid of dreams.

He had just closed his fist around the neck of the bottle when it fell again to his side. It might serve his purpose for the moment, but it wouldn't do to be anything less than his best when he traveled to Highpoint Tower.

Reluctantly, he swung his feet onto the floor. The harsh chill of the hardwood against his bare feet shocked him momentarily awake and gave him enough energy to stumble into the room's back alcove and sit heavily in one of the wooden chairs.

Although his time in Apocrypha felt like a dream, he knew it was more than that, if only from the sudden sharp sting of the injuries he had sustained. Wincing, he peeled his armor away from his body, working through gritted teeth until he had stripped to his smallclothes. That little effort had sweat beading on his forehead and he worried absently for the first time about some foreign infection. Mortals were not made to roam Oblivion, after all.

He had felt as though he were dying with every step through Hermaeus' realm, but he had returned to Nirn relatively unscathed. His fingernails were caked with blood and there was a jagged cut across one thigh, but otherwise, he could see no lasting injuries. When he stood and moved to the looking glass upon the wall, he grimaced at his reflection. His skin looked pallid and sickly, and there was a line of dried blood from his nose to his chin, across lips that were cracked and still bleeding.

A damp cloth was able to undo most of the damage, but he still felt strange, and far too cold. The rest of his dismal appearance was washed away by the illusion that took its place, shifting his pale complexion to the golden tone of his mother's race.

With great effort he was able to dress himself once again and once his boots were pulled snugly around his frozen toes, he shuffled out of the room.

The inn was dark and quiet but for the sound of gentle snoring and his uneven footsteps whispered quietly against the stones as he climbed the staircase and pushed his way out into the night.

It was dark in Raven Rock, the cobblestone streets illuminated only by the light of the twin moons above. It was near midnight and the town was still. The only sound was that of the constant construction from the other side of town. Without the noise of the market and Glover Mallory's forge to overpower it, the rhythmic drumming of pickaxes on stone was eerie.

Turning away, Jaqen limped toward the gates, nodding briefly to the guards that stood beside it. They nodded back, but there was clear suspicion in their eyes. Ordinarily, an outsider in Solstheim, and an obviously injured one at that, would raise a few eyebrows, and in a time when even the natives were falling under suspicion he was even more out of place.

A cold wind was blowing across the plain once he cleared Raven Rock's walls and not for the first time he wished that he had brought a cloak with him. Even in Dawnstar the Dark Brotherhood's leather armor tended to give little protection from the cold, but he had had other things on his mind as he crossed to Solstheim, and a cloak had not been one of them.

"Outlander!"

Jaqen blinked rapidly to clear his vision and his gaze focused on a group of fur-clad hunters, bows and swords in hand.

"Join our hunt!" their leader cried. "We're on the trail of a bull netch."

For a brief moment, Jaqen considered killing them and taking their armor.

"I'm not much of a hunter," he called back, his voice hoarse. Unless the prey was man or mer.

Accepting his reply, they continued on their way, leaving the assassin to shamble alone on the road to the North. He had checked Neloth's maps during his time in his tower and had located Highpoint Tower with ease. It was to the northeast of Raven Rock, nestled below the mountains, its tower well hidden amongst the snowy peaks.

There were few signs of life as he walked, and what buildings did fall along his path had long since been burned and left abandoned, likely by the ash spawn he had encountered on the way to Tel Mithryn. Yet another one of the steadily growing mysteries of Solstheim.

A gust of wind blew snow across his path and he shivered as he brushed it from his armor. The cold of Solstheim seemed far deeper than any other he had known. It was a cold that ran bone-deep, and then deeper still.

A sticky wet patch was growing across his leather greaves from the gash on his thigh and he pulled off a glove with his teeth before gingerly laying his hand across the dark stain. For a moment, his hand seemed to stick and when he withdrew it, thin tendrils hung between it and the fabric, a shimmering emerald green that stood out starkly against his pale skin. Terror rose in his throat at the sight of it, but when he blinked and looked again his palm was crimson.

The fear subsided somewhat, but as he moved to wipe the blood from his hand, he grew suddenly lightheaded, his vision swimming as his head throbbed insistently. He managed one step, and then another, and then collapsed to the ground, a thin trail of dark green blood oozing from between his lips.

* * *

"He looks rich. Those Altmer types always are."

Jaqen was vaguely aware of a pair of hands removing his coinpurse from his belt and he opened his eyes groggily to see a Dunmer crouched above him, his red eyes flicking about nervously.

A low groan escaped his lips as the would-be-thief unwittingly scraped the small bag across its owners wound and the sound made him jump, his gaze turning sharply to meet Jaqen's. When their eyes met, Jaqen's mind was filled with a strange assortment of images: mounds of dirt, the sounds of digging, of charcoal on parchment, and then of chanting, screams, and death.

He tried to scramble backward but was stopped by a hand on his arm.

"You're in no shape to go anywhere," the dark elf warned. After a moment, he sheepishly returned the coinpurse. "I thought you were dead."

Jaqen opened his mouth to speak but it was another sickly moan that came out. _Not yet._

He had survived a number of things in his lifetime, but Solstheim might be the death of him. His own folly might be the death of him. He had gone into the Black Book knowing what it would mean, and now Oblivion had left its mark on him, its poison swimming thickly in his veins.

"My name is Ralis Sedarys. Who are you, outlander?"

"Cirimion," he managed to cough. And then nothing more.

Ralis cocked an eyebrow. "Well, Cirimion, I have a camp just over the next hill, with some food and drink to spare."

Jaqen nodded his thanks and the Dunmer stooped to help him stand, supporting his weight as he sagged against his rescuer's side.

"You're lucky I found you before anything else did. I don't even know Solstheim anymore, the way things have been going."

The camp of which he had spoken was little more than two tents, pitched in the snow beside a mountain of earth. Once again, the series of images flashed through Jaqen's mind and he shook his head to clear it, but couldn't erase the vague feeling of unease that had settled in the pit of his stomach.

Ralis helped him onto one of the bedrolls before rummaging around and returning a moment later with a bottle of sujamma.

"Drink up," he said cheerily. "Nothing that a bottle of Sadri's sujamma can't cure."

Somehow, Jaqen doubted that, but he sipped at it obediently, enjoying the warmth that settled in his stomach.

While he drank, Ralis set about making a fire and by the time that Jaqen had finished the bottle and was feeling pleasantly foggy, he approached with a slab of cooked boar meat. They ate in silence, Jaqen attempting to think of how to remedy his situation through the fog of the alcohol. He supposed that a potion might do, but he doubted that anything he could craft would be strong enough to purge the poison from his body. It was no ordinary disease that afflicted him, and he had no doubt that Hermaeus' power was far greater than his, in every regard.

At the very least, however, a potion could stave off the effects for a time, allowing him to complete his contract and then return to Apocrypha to bargain with the Prince of Fate.

"Do you have a mortar and pestle?"

Ralis looked at him curiously and then nodded. "I think so. Are you an alchemist?"

Jaqen shook his head. He was an illusionist, and an assassin, but neither seemed like information that his companion needed to know. His magick hadn't obscured the ugly cut across his thigh, but at least his identity was hidden, and for that he was grateful.

Ralis gave him what he needed, and Jaqen quietly ground the ingredients he was able to find, dumping them into another bottle of sujamma when they had become a fine dust and drinking the foul concoction as swiftly as he could.

His companion had left him to his own devices for a time and was scribbling something in a leather bound journal when Jaqen rose to his feet and gathered his few things.

The Dunmer lifted his gaze, a strange glint in his eyes. "I suppose I saved your life tonight."

"I suppose you did," Jaqen answered warily.

"And I suppose that means you're in my debt."

Jaqen eyed him carefully, seeing a flicker of those same strange images behind the red of his eyes. "I suppose it does."

"Five thousand gold," Ralis said firmly. "That should fund the first few stages of my excavation."

"Excavation?"

He nodded. "You ever heard of Ahzidal? He was the first great Nord enchanter, maybe even the first human to master elven methods. His best work was buried with him, though. A set that my patron calls 'the Relics' are supposed to be down in his tomb, beneath this great mound of earth here. Now, they're old, and they're powerful. A combination like that makes them pretty valuable to certain people, and I happen to know certain people." He grinned.

As Jaqen looked at him, he saw what the excavation would bring. He would get his gold, and do his digging, and in the depths of Kolbjorn Barrow, he would find Ahzidal. With the blood of his men he would raise him from his tomb, and Jaqen would begin it all, because it was his debt to pay.

"Five thousand gold," he echoed, his voice faint. "When I return to Skyrim, I will send it. A courier will bring it to you from Raven Rock by the next turn of the moons."

Ralis nodded in acceptance of that and returned to his journal. "It was good to meet you, Cirimion. I look forward to receiving your letter."

Without a word, Jaqen continued, leaving Ralis to his notes. Perhaps one day someone else would come and stop him from his unholy work. It would not be Jaqen, for once he left the shores of Solstheim he knew he would never return.

The winds had calmed during his time at Ralis' camp and he was able to make his way easily to the north. Highpoint Tower stood at half of its former height, its crumbling spire hidden in the mountains. Carefully, he made his way through the tunnel to its edge.

He took his daggers in hand with an iron grip and walked steadily into the keep, his footsteps silent on the fine layer of ash. He would have to find his target quickly, and end her life. Until he returned to the halls of Apocrypha, he was living on borrowed time.


	8. Alduin's Wall (Dany II)

**A/N:** Hey, happy Monday. Happy almost Valentine's Day. Happy ESO update day. Hope you all have a good couple of weeks. As always, many thanks to my beta reader (and sister) **GrowlingPeanut**. Reviews are appreciated.

 **Disclaimer:** Everything belongs to Bethesda Softworks and George R. R. Martin. Except Vanyrra.

 **Rating:** M for some language and sexual references.

* * *

Though the entrance of the cave seemed small as they ducked inside, the Karthspire opened before them to reveal a crudely constructed village spread across several levels of smooth stone. The tents were made of fur and tanned leather and the Forsworn wandered between them, tending to the gardens, drinking, bathing openly in the light of roaring fires.

Beyond the strangely domestic scene, however, a forge bellowed smoke and a stack of refined malachite was melted down and carved into ferocious looking weapons. This was but one sign of their coming war, and they eyed their new leader's wife with interest as she made her way through the cavern.

Dany felt strangely self-conscious in her cotton tunic and the leather riding pants which Drogo had given her so long ago. The Forsworn wore little and what clothing they did have looked to have been handmade from furs skinned from wild animals, some still stained with blood. Those without were unashamed by their nudity and rather than feeling embarrassed by the sight, Dany was envious. What right did the civilized men and women of Tamriel have to call them savages? Though they practiced strange magicks and took freely of each other's bodies beneath the stars, they were no less proud, nor less deserving of respect.

"What did that creature call you?" Delphine muttered as she warily watched the warriors around them. "Khaleesi? What is that? Some savage word of theirs?"

Dany bristled at the slight and regarded her companion through narrowed eyes. "I am more than just the Dragonborn," she replied tersely. "To the Forsworn, I am Khaleesi, and to High Rock, I will be queen."

Delphine quieted at her pointed comment, but did not adjust the disdain with which she viewed the Forsworn. Dany supposed that if she gave the command, her army would tear the older woman to pieces. It was almost tempting, but then her stomach turned at the thought and she pushed ahead of her companions. For now, she needed the Blades as much as they needed her, if only to understand her place in the prophecies of old.

As they continued, the carved walls of the cavern gave way to rocky crags and moss covered stone, pointing the way to Sky Haven Temple. At last, they reached a dead end, and they gathered together before three pillars, each carved with foreign symbols.

"What's this?" Sandor asked as he squinted at the stones. "Some kind of a trap?"

Esbern shook his head slowly and stepped forward, kneeling to brush the moss from their surfaces. "These are old Akaviri symbols...This one here," He pointed to the one on the right, carved in the likeness of two dragons, their heads together to form a crude arrow. "Is their symbol for the Dragonborn."

He looked up toward Daenerys and she nodded absently, frowning as Delphine helped Esbern to turn the three pillars until all three were displaying the Dragonborn symbol. This seemed to be evidence of Esbern's claim about the temple, and Dany wasn't sure whether to be disappointed or relieved. A part of her had hoped that Alduin's Wall would not exist. If there was no record of how to defeat him, then she would no longer hold the responsibility of ending his reign of terror. She did not want the world to burn, but neither did she want to be the one to save it.

When they turned the last pillar into place, a stone bridge broke free from its confines, scraping at the cave walls as it stretched out to give them access to the level above. In his excitement, Esbern ascended first, climbing the stone steps at the side of the room and making his way across the bridge. Delphine followed, then Dany, with Sandor at the back. She gave him a weary smile as she passed and he nodded in acknowledgment.

Another chamber opened before them as they crossed the bridge, wide and long, with what appeared to be a large grid mapped out across the floor. Dany made to cross, but a hand on her arm yanked her back as her foot hit the first tile, barely pulling her back in time to avoid the gust of fire that billowed from its hidden valves.

"Pressure plates," Sandor warned belatedly, releasing her.

Dany nodded shakily and stepped back to his side. Though he stood solidly beside her, she could see that he was tense, and his jaw was clenched as he watched the smoke dissipate.

"It's the same symbols as before," Esbern remarked as he examined the pattern on the floor. "Perhaps, if we follow the path of the Dragonborn symbol, we can cross safely."

Sandor sighed heavily. "All these gods damned puzzles and traps. Why couldn't they have just left a book or something: 'here's how you defeat the damned dragon. Go kill the scaly son of a bitch and be done with it'."

Delphine snorted, then quickly hid her amusement behind a scowl. "I'll go first."

Gingerly, she stepped onto the closest tile with the Dragonborn symbol, and when no fire accompanied the movement, she relaxed and waved the others onward. It was slow going as they made their way across the large room one at a time, following in the footsteps of the one before them. When Sandor's boots connected with the floor on the other side, they all breathed a sigh of relief and then turned to continue.

The next room was even larger, carved into a smooth dome. Opposite them was what looked like a door, shaped into a massive stone likeness of a face. Other than that, the room's most notable feature was the large circle that had been etched into the floor. The remainder of it was empty.

"Another puzzle?" Sandor asked drily.

Esbern looked about for a moment with a frown, his hands on his hips. Eventually, he continued in, walking to the middle of the circle and kneeling down to run a hand across its center. After a lengthy silence, he stood.

"No, it's a blood seal."

Delphine eyed it suspiciously. "What does that mean, Esbern?"

"It means," he explained. "That this door will only open to the blood of a Dragonborn." With that, he turned away, moving to stand beside the stone face. "Reman Cyrodiil..." he mused idly. "Akaviri hero, called the "Light of Man". My readings suggest that Sky Haven originated as a shrine to the so called "Worldly God"."

He ignored the reactions of his companions, as Delphine bent to more closely examine the blood seal and Dany eyed her nervously. When Delphine rose again and gave her an expectant look, Dany paled.

Sandor moved to her side, looking down at her with his arms crossed over his chest. "I can do it if you like," he offered. "I'll make it as painless as I can."

For a moment, Dany saw herself in his arms, her throat slit as her blood poured onto the waiting seal. Perhaps the Dragonborn was needed as a sacrifice, and nothing more. Someone else could be the hero.

The thought frightened her and she shook her head to clear her mind. "No," she said firmly. "I can do it."

With a trembling hand, she withdrew the dagger from her belt. Its steel blade was dull in the darkness of the room, and it felt heavy in her hand. Once, she had sickened at the sight of blood, but after watching the blood of her child leave her in the days following Helgen, what were a few drops of her own?

Swiftly, so as not to allow herself any hesitation, she drew the blade across her palm, gasping as it split the skin. Returning it to her side, she clenched her fist, watching as her blood fell to the stone. As it hit the surface below her feet, the stone face opposite gave a low gravely groan and then began to retreat, revealing a passage beneath.

It led to a dark winding staircase and Delphine rummaged in her pack for a moment before withdrawing her flint and steel and setting about lighting the braziers along the inner wall. Esbern followed as she did, murmuring to himself as he ran his fingers across the Akaviri carvings illuminated by the growing flames.

Dany and Sandor followed along slowly and as they continued their ascent, the young woman looked up at her sellsword companion. "Do you think it's real?"

"Alduin's Wall?" When she nodded, he shrugged. "It seems as though it might be. Why?"

She was quiet for a moment, and then as the temple opened before them, she whispered her reply. "It frightens me."

If Sandor meant to respond, he was cut off by a gasp from Esbern. The old man rushed forward into the sprawling chamber, toward a massive relief against the far wall.

"Shor's bones..." he breathed. "Here it is! Alduin's wall…so well preserved…I've never seen a finer example of early second era Akaviri sculptural relief…"

Delphine cocked an eyebrow. "Esbern, we need information, not a lesson on art history."

He waved aside her comment and continued to examine the wall. "Look, look!" he cried. He glanced over his shoulder, eyes bright, and then waved for Daenerys to join them. When she did, he gestured toward a carving of a familiar figure. "Here is Alduin," he explained excitedly. "This panel goes back to the beginning of time, when Alduin and the Dragon Cult ruled over Skyrim."

He continued along the wall, pointing to the next image. "Here, the humans rebel against their dragon overlords—the legendary Dragon War."

They moved to the middle, where the dragon again returned to the carving. "Alduin's defeat is the centerpiece of the Wall. You see, here he is, falling from the sky. The Nord Tongues—masters of the Voice—are arrayed against him."

Dany thought of the Greybeards, and of how powerful they were. They could knock a man flat with a whisper. If their kind had defeated him before, then they could do it again. What could she do, standing alone before the beast with no weapon but her Voice?

"Yes, yes…" Esbern mumbled, continuing further and leaving Dany to her musing. "This here, coming from the mouths of the Nord heroes—this is the Akaviri symbol for 'Shout'."

At that, Delphine moved to his side once more, and Esbern frowned. "If this is true, that means the ancient Nords used a shout to bring Alduin down." He looked at Dany. "Do you know of any such shout?" When she shook her head, Delphine sighed.

"I was afraid of that. We'll have to ask the Greybeards for help. I hoped to avoid involving them in this, but it appears we have no choice." When Dany raised an eyebrow, Delphine continued in exasperation. "If they had their way, you would do nothing but sit up on their mountain and talk to the sky, or whatever it is they do. The Greybeards are so afraid of power that they won't use it." When Dany opened her mouth to defend them, Delphine cut her off. "Think about it. Have they tried to stop the civil war, or done anything about Alduin? No. And they're afraid of you, of your power."

"Should they not be?"

Delphine snorted. "Only if you don't know how to use it. All the great heroes had to learn how to use their power. Those that shrank away from destiny…well, you've never heard of them, have you? There's always a choice, and there's always a risk, but if you live in fear of what might go wrong, you'll end up doing nothing. Like the Greybeards up on their damned mountain."

With that, she shook her head and walked off, muttering under her breath.

Esbern watched her go for a moment before looking back to the relief. He ran his hand across it and then looked up in awe at the Akaviri figures before him, their swords raised. "The prophecy which brought Akaviri to Tamriel in the first place..." His tone was one of reverent awe. "In search of the Dragonborn."

He grew silent and Dany stared at the carved out hero. It was a man, tall and broad, in ornate armor, with sword and shield raised against the fire that blazed from Alduin's gaping maw. It was a figure from legend. The Dragonborn of prophecy. A hero, not a slight Breton who had yet to reach her twentieth nameday.

Finally, Esbern finished his history. The final etching depicted Alduin once more, and opposite, that same hero. "Now they kneel," Esbern finished gravely. "Their ancient mission fulfilled, as the Last Dragonborn contends with Alduin...at the end of time."

* * *

Esbern insisted that there was much to be learned from the Temple and so they remained for several days. The historian spent much of that time standing before Alduin's Wall and the rest poring over the scrolls and tomes that had been left behind. Delphine paced idly, making a steady circuit through the Temple and out through its adjoining courtyard. When Sandor wasn't glaring at her or sparring with Dany, he sat beside Stranger and stared off aimlessly, deep in his own thoughts.

Daenerys split her time between the three of them, learning what she could from Esbern, shooting the targets Sandor made for her until they were filled with a hundred holes, and avoiding Delphine's charted path. It was only in the few hours that they were all asleep when she found time to herself and she spent it in the Karthspire.

She could only imagine what Delphine would say if she knew that she was sneaking away on her own to spend time amongst the Forsworn, or Sandor for that matter. After groggily calling her Elinor one morning he had been forced to admit that she reminded him of the sister he had once had, and that, in addition to her promised gold, made him rather protective.

The Forsworn paid her little mind as she wandered through their midst, though when her back was turned, their eyes followed her, curious and intent. She was staring up at the stars one night when Vanyrra found her.

"The Lover," she said, pointing a finger toward the corresponding constellation in the sky above. "What does it mean?" Dany looked to her in surprise. She had learned of the constellations as a girl from Riften's court wizard, but hadn't thought that the Forsworn would have an interest. Particularly not one of the Briarhearts.

"Umm..." Dany hesitated, frowning. "The Lover is the sign of Sun's Dawn. That's why she's still to the west of the Ritual. It's said that those born under her sign are graceful and passionate." When Vanyrra kept her eyes to the sky, she continued, feeling uncomfortable and wishing to fill the silence. "You noticed my companion when we arrived? The younger man?"

Vanyrra nodded. "His face bears the mark of a great warrior."

Dany frowned slightly. She had certainly never thought about it that way. When she looked at him she tried to keep her eyes to the right side of his face, out of equal measure of respect and fear. She had never thought to ask how he had earned his scars.

"Yes. Well, the woman he loves was born under the Lover and she certainly bears her favor. Now she rules as Skyrim's queen."

"She is his..." Vanyrra turned her black gaze toward Dany and she fought the sudden urge to flee. "Wife? As you are of your Khal?"

Dany sighed. That was a complicated matter. "No. She is another man's wife. But she does not love her husband."

The Briarheart frowned deeply at that. "Your people have strange ways." When Dany struggled to respond, she continued. "Many of my people do not accept you, still. If Khal and Khaleesi are to rule the Forsworn, you will become like us."

"Like you?" She could not imagine herself in their clothing, making sacrifices at their altars, charging into battle with their jagged blades in hand.

Vanyrra nodded. "I will teach your Khal and his Khajiit the ways of my people and he will teach you. Why are you here, Khaleesi, if not to lead us?"

"I don't know," Dany answered honestly. "To learn about myself, I suppose. There is something I must do before I can return to my home, and my companions believe the Temple here has the answers they seek."

The older woman was silent for a long moment before she looked to Dany once again, her gaze empty and cold. "The Forsworn will begin your war, Khaleesi. When you have found your answers, join us in the lands of your birth. There, you will fight with us. There, we will become Reachmen once more."

* * *

As she slept that night, soothed to sleep by Esbern's steady murmurs, she dreamed. Not of her son's death, or of Alduin, but of her husband. She saw him clearly, outlined by the light of a roaring fire. His long hair was unbraided and fell to the backs of his thighs, bare, as was the rest of him. Her loins flared with a heat that she missed sorely and she moved toward him, aching to feel his skin beneath her palms.

As she approached, she realized that he was not alone. Across from him was the Briarheart woman. Her body was full figured in a way that Daenerys' had never grown to be and she felt a sharp pang of jealousy at the sight of her. Rather than marring her beauty, the thick scar where her left breast had once been and the ragged hole that held her heart served as a testament to what she had endured, giving her a strength beyond that of her muscular frame.

As Dany watched, the other woman took one of Drogo's hands in her own and raised it to her chest. His other moved to her waist and Dany heard Vanyrra's words in her mind. _"I will teach your Khal the ways of my people."_ She jerked awake before she could see anything more, her cheeks hot and her chest heaving against the anger that burned inside it.

Her eyes met Sandor's across the fire between them and he cocked his eyebrow. "Nightmare?"

She nodded silently. At times, when she dreamt of the black dragon who would bring Nirn to its ruin, she wondered if her dreams held a hint of prophecy. Never before had she so desperately hoped that weren't so.

He nodded in understanding and prodded at the fire, an absent expression on his face.

When her temper had cooled somewhat, Dany spoke again, barely above a whisper. "Do you believe it?"

Sandor looked up again and then gestured vaguely over his shoulder. "Old heroes shouting a dragon to death and all that?" He shrugged. "Mayhap it's just horseshit, but he believes it, and it's the only hope we have."

They both looked toward Esbern, pacing along the wall with a torch in his hand and muttering to himself. In the opposite corner, Delphine watched her companion absently, one hand around the hilt of her sword.

"Wherever we go after this, I don't think we'll have our Blades companions with us. He isn't going to abandon this for anything and she won't leave his side."

Dany watched Esbern for a moment longer before turning her gaze to Stranger. The courser had settled down beside his master as he slept and remained there when Sandor woke, his head laid down beside his curled legs to accept the hand that stroked his neck. Beside him were his heavy saddlebags, and at the edge of one, the mouth of a horn was visible.

Sandor followed her gaze and sighed, making the flames dance between them.

"Time to return to the Greybeards is it?"

Dany nodded, taking the horn and avoiding Stranger's half-hearted snap as she passed. She settled down again and turned it in her hands.

"We've kept them waiting long enough. And Esbern thinks they may know about the shout, if that is truly the way to defeat Alduin."

Sandor grunted in thinly veiled disagreement, which she chose to ignore. It had been almost a full moon since their journey up the seven thousand steps and in that time, though she had grown stronger, she had learned little more about her powers.

Though her sellsword disliked the silent old masters, she hoped that they could stay at High Hrothgar so she could hone her skills. Esbern could tell her every bit of the history surrounding her alleged prophecy, but the Greybeards knew of her powers, and it was that knowledge which she most desired.

With a sigh, she rose to her feet, and Sandor looked up at her with his eyebrow raised. "Now?"

She looked about for a moment before nodding. Neither of them could sleep, and she knew they would both be glad to be on their own again. She was tired of being called "Dragonborn", and the animosity between Delphine and Sandor was plain to see.

Obediently, the sellsword set about gathering their belongings and snuffing out their fire. As he worked, Dany approached Delphine.

"We're going to see Arngeir," she said firmly. Delphine looked up and pursed her lips.

"Right. Well, good thing they've already accepted you into their little cult. Not likely they'd help me or Esbern if we came calling. We'll stay here and see what else the old Blades might have left for us. It's a better hideout than I could have hoped for, really."

Dany chose not to reply and, having done Delphine the courtesy of informing her of their plans, returned to Sandor's side. It was as they were making their way toward the winding staircase that Delphine spoke once again, calling toward their retreating forms.

"Talos guide you."


	9. The Hound and the Little Bird (Sansa II)

**A/N:** Here's chapter 8 for you. Nothing to note. Just go ahead and read and I hope you enjoy. As always, many thanks to my beta reader (and sister) **GrowlingPeanut**. Reviews are appreciated.

 **Disclaimer:** Everything belongs to Bethesda Softworks and George R. R. Martin.

 **Rating:** T for super vague suggestive references.

* * *

Solitude became near unrecognizable during the New Life festival, as decorations were thrown about the market stalls and the streets filled with revelers. Amid the cries of excitement the sound of hammering could be heard. Rebuilding had begun on what the Stormcloak army had destroyed and the last remnants of the Legion were being torn and burned within Castle Dour. It was no longer the home that Sansa had known as a child.

She made her way slowly through the streets, watching the reconstruction and staying on the fringes of the ongoing celebration, just glad to be in the fresh air and away from her husband, for however brief a time. With the hood of her cloak drawn over her features, no one paid her any mind and she enjoyed the anonymity while she could.

A gust of warm air greeted her as she passed by the Temple of the Divines and after a moment of hesitation, she walked between its open doors. It was quiet inside, tended by priests and priestesses in plain brown robes and occupied by only a few other worshipers.

Silently, Sansa made her way to the first of the nine altars. _Julianos_ , she prayed. _Grant me the wisdom to rule as Skyrim's queen._ It was not a duty that she wanted, but she had little choice, and so she hoped that she could do her best for Skyrim while she was forced to sit upon her throne.

 _Akatosh, make the time seem short, so that soon I can meet my child._ She placed a hand against the curve of her belly, which had begun to swell noticeably with what seemed to be each passing day. When she expressed concern to Gilly, the other woman had reassured her. It was normal, she had said, for it to change swiftly and she had known some women who had even grown a noticeable bump nearly overnight. It pleased Sansa greatly to watch her form grow before her mirror, but she worried about Ulfric. She was into the thirteenth week of her pregnancy and hadn't yet reached her third month of marriage.

 _Dibella..._ She hesitated, fingers brushing softly against the iron petals of the goddess' shrine. There was no love or pleasure in her life, save for that of her brother and sister, but that love belonged to the realm of Mara. She passed on, asking Dibella for forgiveness, but nothing more.

 _Kynareth, help wash the blood from the lands of my home. She has been torn apart by this war and with its end deserves new life, as do we all._

She stopped before the next shrine, the tips of her fingers barely brushing along its edges. During Torygg's rule, the shrine to Talos had been removed, but upon his coronation, Ulfric had it replaced and it shone in the far alcove, its silver polish as of yet untarnished by the touch of a thousand worshipers. _Talos, give me strength._

She prayed to each of the other Divines in turn, thanking them and asking for their blessings in her life before returning to the streets once more. The Temple had put her at ease and she breathed in the cold air deeply as she walked back toward the Palace, a rare smile gracing her features.

As Sansa approached the Palace, she hesitated, coming to a stop before a large stone building. It was the Bard's College where she had once learned her trade and she could hear faint singing from the street. Curious, she ascended the stairs at its rear, following the sound of the music.

 _"They met one night amid death cries and flame  
And Fate, she did tie them from then to the grave  
They called him the Hound and he showed her his claws  
But the little bird soothed him with her beauty and songs."_

Sansa stopped at the edge of the courtyard, her heart pounding in her chest as she watched the musician from the shadows.

 _"The Hound and the Little Bird, a love for the ages  
Though the King, he will keep, their tale from all pages."_

She heard his voice in her head, as clearly as if it had been only yesterday. _"You sing. And you're pretty. Like a little bird."_ It had been taunting then, almost cruel. But then... _"Go on. Sing for me, little bird..."_

 _"He was a traitor and she but a child  
With a ransom 'pon her head they rode through the wild  
Between the two travelers a romance did form  
And as Winter began she was made a woman grown."_

Nobody else knew that he had called her that, of that she was certain. She hadn't even told Arya the few times she had gathered the strength to talk about him.

 _"But the Gods, they are cruel to men upon Nirn  
Stormcloak's desire for the dove made his sentence quite firm  
And with "Justice be done", the poor Hound lost his head  
And his lover, that night, she was both wed and bed._

 _"They say as she cried a part of her died  
And her heart now resides where his body, it lies  
Now she wears the high crown and 'tis the duty of a bard  
To tell that she waits for the halls of Sovngarde."_

She watched the man before her strum his lute, singing along to his crafted tune. Her breathing was labored, and she felt tears forming in her eyes. How could he know? How could he _possibly_ know?

 _"The Hound and the Little Bird, a love for the ages  
Though the King, he will keep, their love from all pages.  
Yes, the Hound and the Little Bird had a love for the ages  
And the King, he will keep, their love from all pages."_

When he stopped, she stepped into the light, and he looked up in alarm. "You could be executed for writing such a song."

"Executed?" The young bard's fingers halted their movement along the strings of his lute. "I doubt that, my lady. It isn't even a good song yet. I'm having trouble with some of the rhymes. Do you have a good rhyme for "form"?"

Sansa ignored the question and removed her hood. "You do not know my husband. He is a harsh and cruel man and he does not enjoy being made a fool."

The bard scrambled hastily to his feet and dropped into a low bow. "My Queen."

She paid no mind to the address and eyed the young man warily. "This song of yours, what is it called?"

"Erm..." He scratched at the patchy stubble across his chin. "The Hound and the Little Bird. I thought I had made that somewhat obvious..."

"How did you come up with that name?" she demanded. Though she knew it was impossible, she wanted to hear him say that he had heard it from a stranger on the roads. Tall, with broad shoulders, and scars across his face.

There was a moment of hesitation so brief she thought she imagined it, and then he shrugged, smiling humbly. "I thought of it myself. I knew you studied here at the Bard's College as a child and so I thought "little bird" might be a fitting moniker to match the Hound's."

Sansa nodded, though her heart sank. For a moment, she had almost dared to believe...but no. She had been there at his execution, seen his head roll from the block. The boy had good luck; there was no other explanation.

"There is a great deal of truth in what you've written," she warned him. "And that makes it dangerous. What is your name, sir?"

"Wat," he replied, before hastily adding, "My Queen."

"Go then, Wat. Leave Solitude. Change your name, change your face, and tell my story far from the axe of my husband's executioner. I will not see another man die because of who I chose to love."

The young man's eyes widened slightly at that, and Sansa wondered if he thought that what he had written was merely a fantasy. Finally, he nodded.

"Very well, My Queen. I will dye my hair and wear fine clothing only in the shade of your majesty's eyes. I will shout your tragic tale from the Throat of the World and when you hear its echo in Solitude's walls, think of the Blue Bard and know I've kept my word."

Sansa sat in the courtyard for a long time after Wat had left her, allowing her heart to stop its hammering and her eyes to dry. Her thoughts were far away and she didn't realize someone had approached until he was standing before her.

"Lady Sansa?"

It was Giraud Gemane, Dean of History at the College, and one of the instructors who had trained Sansa during her tenure as a child.

She looked up in alarm at the sound of her name, but her features softened as she recognized him and she gave him a tired smile. "Giraud...you startled me."

"My apologies," he replied, taking a seat beside her. "Why are you here and not celebrating with the rest of the city?"

"I'm not in the proper condition to be drinking or leaping into freezing water."

His gaze fell to her rounded belly. "Of course. The future king or queen of Skyrim." His brow furrowed slightly. "If you had told me ten years ago that I was teaching the future High Queen of Skyrim to write poetry and put it to verse, I wouldn't have believed you."

Sansa sighed. "Neither would I."

"I suppose young Sansa would have been excited by the news," he continued. "Knowing she would live such a glamorous life."

Glamorous. He wasn't wrong, not entirely. What her life was was gilded. It was perfect and rich on the outside, where others could see the gowns that Taarie and Endarie had sewn for her, the crown that sat upon her brow, the glowing smiles that Ulfric bestowed upon her. But beneath, it was dull and plain, her gowns every shade but grey and white, her crown awkward and heavy, her husband's smiles traded for the sting of his words, and his palm.

"Young Sansa had few cares," she said wistfully. Until her father was killed, and everything changed.

They sat together in a contemplative silence, and then Giraud spoke again. "There may be another festival that you and the babe could take part in, if you're interested."

Sansa met his gaze, eyebrows raised. "Oh?"

He nodded. "Do you remember your lessons about the Poetic Edda?"

Sansa thought about it for a moment, then nodded. "I think so. What of it?"

"Well," Giraud began. "I've been considering asking King Ulfric to bring back the Burning of King Olaf. It is, after all, a condemnation of false kings, and I believe your husband would find it supportive to his rule."

If it was a condemnation of false kings that he was looking for, Sansa supposed that nothing would be more fitting than the Burning of King Ulfric. But, she kept her thoughts to herself.

"And how am I to help with this?"

"I found Svaknir's lost verse," Giraud explained. "That told of King Olaf's betrayal , but there are fragments missing. You were one of my brightest students, and if you would be willing to fill in the missing spaces, I believe a poem restored by the High Queen herself would be a fitting and honorable addition to the Festival."

Sansa thought about it for a moment, then nodded. It had been a long time since she had composed anything, but perhaps the task would keep her distracted. "I would be glad to help."

Her former instructor lit up at her acceptance and stood hastily. "Splendid! Let me go retrieve the pages for you, so you can take them with you to the Palace and think upon them."

He hurried away and then returned a moment later with a handful of yellowed parchment, much of the ink upon the pages smudged and unreadable. "Thank you so much for doing this, Lady Sansa," he said with a smile. "It means a lot to me, and to the College."

Sansa nodded in acceptance of the thanks and then, feigning fatigue, excused herself back to the Palace. When she entered her chambers, Gilly was there, smoothing the furs across her bed and bustling about the room as best she could with a belly that looked fit to burst.

"I'm glad you've been out, m'lady," the older woman said brightly. "It's a nice day and the fresh air is good for you and the babe." When she saw the papers in her hand she frowned slightly. "What's that, m'lady?"

"A poem," Sansa said idly, placing the stack on the table beside her bed and removing her cloak. "Giraud Gemane at the Bard's College has asked me to restore it so that he can present it to Ulfric."

"I didn't know you wrote poetry, m'lady."

"I haven't in a very long time."

Gilly was riffling through the pages when she suddenly bent over with a cry of pain, her hand flying to her stomach as she sat down heavily on the bed. Sansa rushed to her side, looking to her in alarm.

"Are you feeling well? Is the babe coming?"

Pale, but otherwise alright, Gilly shook her head. "Wuunferth warned me that this might happen, but the babe still isn't due for another fortnight."

Sansa stared at her in disbelief. "A fortnight?" She hadn't realized that her pregnancy was so far advanced. "What in the name of the gods are you doing in Solitude?"

"It's my job to take care of you, m'lady," Gilly protested.

"I can take care of myself well enough," Sansa said firmly, angry at herself for not paying proper attention to her friend. "And I'm sure there's someone else in the castle who can cook and clean for me for a time. You should be in Windhelm with your husband."

Gilly opened her mouth to argue but Sansa shook her head, hurrying to her wardrobe and withdrawing her thickest cloak from within. She put it around Gilly's shoulders and then helped her up from the bed. "Go to the stables and tell Thaer to take you to Windhelm. When he returns I'll pay him for the journey."

Gilly wrapped the cloak tightly about her frame as Sansa ushered her through the halls. The younger woman was quite a bit taller and Gilly lifted it as she walked, all too conscious of every time it fell to scrape against the floor. When they reached her modest quarters in the servant's wing, Sansa stopped and pulled her into a hug.

The maid returned it and when she pulled away, there were tears in Sansa's eyes. "Go," she said gently. "I'll be fine without you. I can't possibly keep you and the babe from Sam any longer." Gilly saw her unspoken words clearly in her gaze. _Not when I would do anything for mine to meet its father._

Thanking her again, Gilly gathered her things. By nightfall, she was already approaching Morthal, and within a day she had returned to her husband's arms.

On the other side of Skyrim, Sansa returned to the Temple of the Divines and as Gilly went into labor, she knelt before the shrine to Dibella. She had no words for herself, but there were others who needed the gods. And so, she began to pray.


	10. The Ways of the Forsworn (Drogo I)

**A/N:** Hey, guys. Hope everyone is doing well, whether you're on spring break, or about to be like me, or if you're working, or whatever. Just hope that everyone's having a good start to their week. So yeah. Umm...no notes really. Just a reminder that I've changed a lot of the Briarheart lore since there isn't a ton in game and I wanted to give them certain qualities. Also, I just had one of my boyfriend's ESO characters turn Vanyrra into a vampire so if you see us running around somewhere just throw me a compliment about my bitchin' new vamp eyes. Anyway, here you go. As always, many thanks to my beta reader (and sister) **GrowlingPeanut**. She just started a new story for Supernatural, so if you're into that, go check it out. And of course, reviews are appreciated.

 **Disclaimer:** Everything belongs to Bethesda Softworks and George R. R. Martin except for Dar'Jazha and Vanyrra.

 **Rating:** M for references to sex, death, and violence, I guess?

* * *

When they departed from Dragon Bridge, Drogo and Dar'Jazha did not return immediately to the Forsworn. Instead, they made their way south to Karthwasten. It had been nearly a full turn of the moons since Drogo and Vanyrra had visited Ainethach, and he was eager to hear if the miner had been successful in securing any supplies for his army.

Ainethach was working in the mine when they arrived and they found him in one of the back tunnels, his face streaked with soot and sweat.

"I'm glad to see Dar'Jazha back at your side," he said as they approached. "Your Forsworn have left us to our own devices, as they promised, but we still do not trust them."

"They have far more important matters to worry about than terrorizing a mining settlement," Drogo replied drily. "But that isn't why we're here. What luck have you had in attaining malachite for us?"

Ainethach sighed and wiped his forehead with the back of his arm. "Some. Kjeld at Steamscorch Mine in Kynesgrove is willing to give half of what his men mine per week for one and a half times its price and a promise of protection."

Drogo frowned, considering the offer. He was certain that the caravan was still earning a good profit and could afford such terms, but the Forsworn were self-sustaining and had no income with which to lessen Ahkari's burden.

"We'll have to think about it. Does the barracks have room for us for a night while we consider it?"

The older man hesitated for a moment. "Is it only you?"

Drogo nodded.

"Then yes. Forgive me for my distrust, Drogo. I have known you men for many years now and I consider you friends, but..." He trailed off, looking sheepish and, despite their reassurances, afraid.

"You don't have to explain yourself," Drogo answered, saddened by the distance that he had put between them, but understanding. "We'll leave at first light."

* * *

After discussing the proposition over dinner, Drogo and Dar'Jazha agreed that they would be unlikely to find a better offer. Steamscorch Mine had the richest deposits of malachite in Skyrim, and if Kjeld was willing to give them even half of what was mined, they would be able to outfit the Forsworn within a few moons.

Drogo penned and signed a purchase agreement with Kjeld as Dar'Jazha wrote to his wife. He told her of the deal and what was expected from the caravan, and then of their journey and how often he wished that he was still at her side. A few days later, Daenerys' sellsword would promise her that her husband thought the very things she would soon see written in his hand.

Both letters were given to a courier as they left Karthwasten behind, making the trek to Druadach Redoubt. They arrived just before nightfall, and were glad to be back at a familiar place. It was there that they would wait to hear word.

While they waited, Drogo allowed himself to mourn for his child's death. He stayed within his tent and for the most part, Dar'Jazha left him alone. He could not fathom the depths of his friend's pain, and so he did not try to.

Instead, the Khajiit joined the Forsworn in their celebration of the New Life festival, marveling idly at which remnants of their old civilization they still held to. They taught him the sword swallowing, fire breathing, and knife juggling of the ancient Breton Castle Charm Challenge and Dar'Jazha amazed them with his light fingers as he effortlessly picked the pockets of those who thought they could outwit him.

It was only a few days later when they received their replies. Kjeld sent back the purchase agreement with his added signature and thanked them for the gold he had already received from the caravan. He promised that the next day's yield would make its way to the nearest Forsworn and that each following week he would send the next shipment, until the promised ingots had all been delivered.

Drogo wished to discuss the arrangement with Vanyrra, but she had departed from Druadach during their absence, and no one they asked knew where she had gone.

It was after their eighth night in Druadach that a Forsworn scout arrived from the Karthspire with a message from the Briarheart. She told them that she had met their Khaleesi and that she had followed her departure with a declaration of war, passed to a courier to be delivered directly to the Usurper of Daenerys' throne. It was written in blood on a sheet of tanned human skin; there was no mistaking the severity of its intent. She had made sure of that.

"She wishes for you to join her at the Karthspire," the messenger finished, looking between the two men. "It is from there that your army will begin its march, when it is ready."

Drogo took the news in silence, his face devoid of expression. Without Dany around to be driven to guilt he had cried for what they had lost and he felt little as the messenger told him that they were now at war. He would fight for his wife, in memory of their child. There was nothing left for them in Skyrim, and she deserved to return to her home. If she could keep it from falling to the fires of Oblivion.

He thought back to their wedding day. She had been so small and frightened as she stood before him, eyes filled with tears of uncertainty. That girl had died in the fires of Helgen and the woman who stepped from the ashes was fast becoming the warrior that her destiny called for her to be. She had been given many names, but her veins pulsed with the blood of the dragons and it was _Dovahkiin_ that she was born to be.

Drogo watched as Dar'Jazha gathered his things and slung the heavy saddlebags across his shoulders. "What are you doing?"

The Khajiit cocked a brow. "The devil woman has called us to her side again, no? It is time for Dar'Jazha and his Khal to lead our Khaleesi's army."

Drogo shook his head. "This isn't your fight. You have a family here. Skyrim is your home. You should return to Ahkari and Ma'ahni."

Dar'Jazha grinned and bent into a mocking bow. "We have lived our lives together at the head of a caravan, my Khal. I have no home, save wherever I am at your side."

Drogo rolled his eyes. "If this is about the debt you believe you owe me—"

His partner cut him off. "Debt or no debt, this is about something more. Khal Drogo saved Dar'Jazha's life when he was young, yes, and he will serve you until his dying day, but don't be foolish." His grin widened, sharp teeth glinting beneath thin lips. "Khal Drogo would be lost without Dar'Jazha. This is why he must go."

Drogo snorted in grudging amusement. "Fine." He hesitated. "But don't call Vanyrra a 'devil woman' within her hearing. I think she'd be happy to rip your heart out of your chest and swallow it whole."

Dar'Jazha made to respond, his tail whipping back and forth, but a voice from the opening of their tent interrupted him.

"The Khajiit only speaks the truth. She knows what she is." There was bitterness in the words. "And that is _all_ she knows."

It was Kaie who stood behind them, her arms crossed over her chest and a dark look in her eyes.

Drogo looked at her warily. "You left the Sundered Towers for Druadach? What do you want from us?"

The young woman shrugged. "I want to ride with you to the Karthspire. If you hold the sword of Red Eagle then you are fit to lead us, and I wish to charge at the vanguard when we cross the border to our rightful home."

The mistrust did not fade from his expression and she sighed in annoyance. "It was never you I didn't trust, Khal Drogo. It was your civilized ways and the monster who paved the way for your rise among us. You're a fool to have faith in her. All she brings to those around her is pain." Her gaze was cold. "You will be no exception."

When Drogo looked to his companion, Dar'Jazha shrugged. Kaie's eyes were clear, a light gold the color of honey. She was Forsworn, yes, but not an undead abomination brought back to life with rituals of black magick. And she shared his misgivings.

With a sigh, Drogo agreed. They met her outside the cave where she waited with their horses and she did not hide her derision as they settled into their saddles. Swinging bareback onto her own mount, she clucked her tongue and they began to move forward, the first three to begin the march that would end at High Rock's throne.

* * *

They made the journey to the Karthspire in two days, taking their meals from their saddles and only stopping to rest once. Although Drogo knew that Daenerys had likely departed in the time it had taken for the messenger to reach them from Vanyrra and for them to make their journey, he kept his gaze sharp as they rode, hoping that a silver mare and black courser would pass their way.

Kaie seemed able to sense the direction of his thoughts and she spoke up as he squinted once more toward the horizon. "You may have to watch that wife of yours, Khal Drogo. Vanyrra seems quite taken with her."

Drogo frowned and she continued at his look of confusion. "The witch isn't particularly discerning with who she allows between her thighs, and she cares nothing for love. You call the Khaleesi your wife, but we do not live by your civilized ways, and in our world, that word means nothing."

"Well," Drogo said irritably. "It means something to Daenerys. She would never be disloyal." Nor would he, no matter how much he longed to feel something more than his own hand when the urge came upon him.

Kaie shrugged. "There is something about that woman that draws people to her. Perhaps they want a taste of her power, if only for a night. I don't understand it, but she's swayed many a man and woman alike."

"And what is it that makes you so different?" Drogo snapped. Ordinarily, he would pay no mind to what she was saying, but he knew well what she spoke of. Though he was frightened by the black of her eyes and the heart that beat in her chest, he had felt that strange pull. It was not a feeling of lust, but of fascination, and if he was a weaker man, it might have been enough to inspire sexual desire.

"I know what she really is." Kaie replied. "I know that inside that body she rots and withers. It's death to fall to her wiles."

"Or to her swords," Drogo countered. "I keep her at my side because she is one of the fiercest among you and if I am to deliver my wife's throne to her, I will need the strongest warriors to fight beside me."

"If that's what you truly believe, then you have already fallen to her charms, in your own way. Tread carefully, Khal Drogo," she warned. "You and Madanach may not be so different, in the end."

* * *

There was a strange atmosphere about the Karthspire when they reached its sprawling docks. It wasn't until Drogo caught the first glimpse of one of the Forsworn between the tents that he realized what was different. Where once they had been clad in crude armor of fur and leather, they now wore sheets of molded glass, glinting in the light of the sun.

They found Vanyrra sparring with a large man, and handily defeating him. She had reforged her weapons and their jagged edges were now the same pale glass as her armor, sharp, swift, and deadly. There was a thick tension between the two of them as she tackled him to the waterlogged boards beneath and Kaie's gaze was dark as she watched.

Drogo swung down from his horse as they approached and when his boots hit the dock they both looked up, two pairs of black eyes meeting his gaze. For a moment, he was shocked, and then his blood ran cold.

"How many of your kind have been turned by this foul magick?" Dar'Jazha asked in echo of his thoughts.

Kaie scowled. "Too many. At some Redoubts, the men and women hold a competition at the full moons. They fight and the one who lives is taken by the Hagravens. If they survive the ritual, they join the ranks of the Briarhearts. I would guess they number near a dozen in total. Only the strongest can survive and many die on the altar."

"Khal Drogo." He looked back to see that Vanyrra had risen and moved to stand before him. "We received a shipment of malachite two days ago. From your...Kjeld, of Steamscorch."

He nodded. "I see you've already begun to craft weapons and armor from it."

"It is good," she replied, returning the gesture. "The blades are quick, light. They cut deep. The armor is..." she frowned, looking down at herself. "Strange. But it protects better than leather."

He nodded again. "Good. That was the intent."

Although crafted from a superior material, the armor and weapons she had made were still in the Forsworn style. The blades were serrated and covered in sharp spikes, from the end of their hilts to their tips. And though the armor provided better protection where it was worn, it still offered little coverage. The cuirass covered her breast, but her heart was visible beneath its translucent glass, its steady, unnatural beat refracting strangely from within. The male Briarheart was bare-chested but wore glass greaves, boots, gauntlets, and a helmet that had been expertly carved in the shape of a buck's skull and antlers to denote his status.

As Drogo surveyed the craftsmanship, Vanyrra turned her gaze from his, her dark eyes finding Kaie's. "Why have you come?"

The other woman's lips curled into a snarl. "Not to fight with you, fiend. I come to join the army of our leader and bring him his victory over High Rock."

"Then you will fight with me," Vanyrra replied evenly. "For you will fight at the side of our Khal, and I at the side of our Khaleesi." She looked up at Drogo, and then to Dar'Jazha. "Come with me. We must speak."

After handing their horses off to Kaie, they followed her. She led them to the cave, and from there, to the side of the bellowing forge. She looked for a moment among the sets of greaves that had been crafted and then withdrew one for each of them, made to match their statures.

"Here," she said, handing them each their respective pieces. "You wish to fight as Forsworn, you must be Forsworn. Wear these."

For a moment, Drogo simply looked at the armor. It was lined with soft leather and held together with sturdy iron buckles, carved to fit from waist to knees. The joints were left exposed for easier movement and then a matching set of boots fit from feet to calves, providing protection to the rest of the legs.

When Vanyrra made no move to leave them, they exchanged a glance and then self-consciously began to disrobe. Vanyrra watched with a blank expression as they buckled the greaves on over their smallclothes and when they tested their movement, she nodded in satisfaction.

"It is good, no?"

After exchanging another glance, they nodded. They were not unaccustomed to armor, but they felt strange standing bare-chested and only outfitted from the waist down. Dar'Jazha shifted uncomfortably in his boots, made especially to fit his flat feet. He would only endure them for a short while; he fought better with his feet bare against the earth.

"You fight with the sword of Red Eagle," she said to Drogo. "Do you have weapons of your own, Dar'Jazha, partner of Khal Drogo, or should I craft for you the blades of my people?"

"Dar'Jazha has his own," he replied, absently flicking his tail. "Gifts from our Khaleesi. A whip and a curved sword. They are called Jhogo and Rakharo, as is Khajiit custom."

Vanyrra nodded slowly. "A strange custom. But it is good to know one's weapons as intimately as a lover; they become a part of you on the field of battle."

For once, Dar'Jazha seemed to agree with her and he scowled when Drogo caught him nodding and smirked.

"This is good," Vanyrra said, circling them with an expression that almost looked pleased. "But still, you have much to learn. Bring your things and settle. When you have rested, come to me. I will be waiting."

* * *

Over the course of the next few weeks, Vanyrra taught them the ways of her people. One day, she took them to one of the Karthspire's elders, who painted their bare chests, arms, and faces with dyes made from Skyrim's various plants. On Drogo, he drew abstract golden designs to represent his caravan, and his wife's claim to royalty, and on Dar'Jazha silvery images of the moons in their different phases and pale yellow stars.

On another, she showed them how to slaughter a goat, prepare its meat, and drive its head onto a stake to mark the land as Forsworn territory.

They sparred beneath the moonlight, Vanyrra's blades flashing as Dar'Jazha's whip cracked and Drogo's sword met the Briarheart's with a shower of sparks. Each night they fought, they were better able to defend themselves from her furious onslaughts, and by the end of a fortnight they managed to disarm her, Jhogo about her throat and Red Eagle's Bane at her exposed waist.

They worked in the Karthspire's fields, brewed its ale, helped to sew and pitch its tents as more warriors began to arrive from other Redoubts. They bathed openly in the cave's pools and in the river beyond the docks, learning to be as unabashed in their nakedness as the Forsworn. As the sound of distant moans kept him from sleep, Drogo imagined what it would be like to make love to his wife beneath the stars, free and unashamed. Where once the thought might have inspired a vague sense of discomfort, he no longer felt any such thing.

As the end of the moon neared, any onlooker would have thought them Forsworn, if their races did not mark them as outsiders. They fit easily into the small world of the Karthspire and the stares of distrust and curiosity began to shift. The Breton warriors viewed their new leaders with growing respect, and as more malachite was put to the forge, others began to leave their leathers and furs behind. The pale blue glass became the uniform of a new people. Not the Forsworn of Skyrim, but the Reachmen of High Rock. A new people that were ready to fight a war for their homeland. They were growing bolder, and they were growing stronger.


	11. Returning a Relic (Sandor II)

**A/N:** Hey, guys. Gonna keep this brief cause I need to run downstairs to Starbucks and get a cup of ice for my protein shake before class. But here's a new chapter. Hope you enjoy. As always, many thanks to my beta reader (and sister) **GrowlingPeanut**. Reviews are appreciated.

 **Disclaimer:** Everything belongs to Bethesda Softworks and George R. R. Martin. Except for Vanyrra who makes a very brief appearance.

 **Rating:** M for language and minor gore.

* * *

The sun was just barely above the horizon when they reached the Karthspire docks and Sandor couldn't help the heavy sigh that left his lips. It had been nearly two and a half moons since he and Daenerys had first left Riverwood and since then, they had only made two stops longer than a week: once, in Whiterun, when she had nearly been killed by the sudden manifestation of her powers, and again when they stayed in High Hrothgar. As much as he disliked the Greybeards, he would be happy to remain with them for a time, if only to bring a temporary end to their constant travel.

Dany seemed to feel the same, speaking aloud as they stared idly toward the sunrise. "There is much for me to still learn from the Greybeards. Once we climb the seven thousand steps again, it may be a while before we come back down."

Sandor nodded in silent acceptance, his gaze shifting when a shape emerged from the early morning fog, black eyes trained on his companion. He suppressed a shiver.

"Khaleesi," Vanyrra tipped her head slightly in deference. "I have written a letter in your name. To your usurper. It is a declaration of war."

For a moment, Sandor was surprised. He had been a soldier for most of his life, and he could hardly imagine Daenerys at war. But he knew of her claim to High Rock, and he realized it was foolish to have thought that would mean anything short of war. A vision flashed before his eyes: Daenerys, on the back of a dragon, Forsworn beneath her as the fields of High Rock were bathed in fire and blood. He shook his head to clear it and saw that the Briarheart had disappeared during the course of his musings.

Dany was giving him a strange look, and he dismissed it with a grunt before spurring Stranger forward. It would take them at least until nightfall to reach Ivarstead, and from there, they had the seven thousand steps between them and the temple at the Throat of the World. It wouldn't do to delay any longer.

For the first few hours the roads were quiet and still and as the sun rose, a thick fog settled across the swampy lands of the Reach. They plodded through it slowly, each deep in their own thoughts and neither in the mood for idle conversation.

Stranger was paying more attention to the road than his master and when he suddenly veered from his path Sandor straightened up and squinted through the fog. What he saw made him falter and he pulled his courser to a halt, gesturing for Dany to do the same. She looked at him in confusion and he shook his head, gesturing for her to stay atop her horse as he dismounted and drew his sword.

A small cart laden with vegetables had been overturned in the middle of the road and the horse that had led it was dead alongside it, its stomach split open and entrails steaming in the cold morning air. All that remained of its master were clumps of bloodied fur and what looked like a half-chewed arm. His eyes followed the trail of blood to a small outcropping past the road. By the look of it, it was a bear that had done the killing, and if it had left the horse mostly intact, then it still had a belly full of meat.

Sheathing his sword, he rummaged through the food that remained in the cart and withdrew a few potatoes and several decent sized carrots. When he handed them over to Dany she frowned and he swung back onto Stranger's saddle.

"He won't be needing them anymore."

She nodded in understanding and tucked them into her saddlebag before following him through the fog. Sandor kept an eye on the shadowed area to the side of the road and when nothing came charging out at them he relaxed and moved his hand from the hilt of his sword to the reins.

They were just emerging from the hazy marshes when Daenerys spoke, her brow furrowed. "There's something I don't understand. Esbern says that Alduin was defeated with a shout, and that the Greybeards must know of it. But..." She frowned deeply. "If they know about it, why didn't they tell me when we were first there? They know it's Alduin that I must defeat, so if they know how to best him, they should have told me from the start."

Sandor nodded in agreement. "Aye. If they had done that we wouldn't have had to get mixed up with the Blades at all." He snorted. "That would have been a blessing." His gaze fell to the horn at his companion's side and he shrugged. "They sent us off after that bloody horn as some sort of a test. I suppose they didn't trust you well enough yet to tell you about it."

Dany's brow furrowed and her lips pursed in irritation. "What other choice do they have? Maybe they can't tell from their mountain, but there isn't any other Dragonborn rushing to save the world."

She said it bitterly and Sandor studied her expression for a moment. The burden that her blood had placed upon her shoulders had changed her. He hadn't seen her smile since she had left her husband's side and each time she drew her bow her hesitation grew shorter. The Blades and the Greybeards alike wanted her as a weapon for their cause, and that was what she was swiftly becoming.

"Sandor. Up ahead."

He turned his gaze to the road to see a group of riders approaching. The blue and gold of their shields sent the barely repressed anger in his chest bubbling to the surface once more and he snarled as they rode up alongside him and his companion.

When they gestured for them to stop Sandor pulled Stranger to a halt and one of the men looked them over. "Names?" he asked sharply.

"Don't see how it's your concern," Sandor replied from between gritted teeth. "Your bloody war is over. We're just travelers."

The soldier's eyes narrowed and he peered closely at the sellsword. "If I didn't know better I'd say you were the Hound himself," he sneered. "You're as big and ugly as he was. But I was there when High King Ulfric took that traitor's head from his shoulders for what he did to our country and our queen."

One of his companions nodded. "Thank the Divines Stormcloak saved her from that monster."

Sandor's jaw clenched tightly and he met their eyes with thinly veiled rage. At last, they nudged their horses onward.

"On your way then, travelers. All hail King Stormcloak."

Dany gave him a sympathetic look as they continued and he avoided her gaze, scowling darkly. With his scars it wasn't exactly easy to hide, but for the most part, Robb's companion had been right. People thought he was dead, and so even those who saw the uncanny resemblance to the infamous Hound doubted their eyes. Thankfully, those who did know the truth weren't the type to spread rumors.

"How much farther until Ivarstead?"

Sandor frowned and squinted at their surroundings for a moment before shrugging. "We're about two hours west of Whiterun still and from there it's another six or so to Ivarstead."

Dany sighed heavily and nodded. She looked as tired as he felt and he knew that they would both be grateful for the featherbeds that awaited them in High Hrothgar.

They rode the rest of the way to Whiterun in silence as Dany dozed in her saddle and when they approached the gates it was nearing midday. Sandor cleared his throat to break his companion from her daze and she blinked rapidly, trying to regain her bearings.

"Whiterun," Sandor offered when she furrowed her brow. "If you want to get a meal at the tavern, I'd like to speak with the blacksmith about something."

Yawning, she nodded and dismounted, stretching with a wince as Sandor got their horses settled in the stable. As she made her way toward the Bannered Mare he took the dragon scales from Stranger's back and ducked into Warmaiden's.

The man behind the counter looked up when he entered and frowned at him for a moment before recognition lit up his features.

"You're the sellsword who came in to get a few pieces for the woman you work for."

He nodded and approached the counter, setting down the scales and resting his chin in the palm of his hand.

"How many of these would you need to craft her a full suit of armor?"

The older Nord gingerly picked one up, hefting it in his hands. "Are these..." He trailed off as Sandor nodded again and whistled softly as he brushed his fingers across each of the scales. Finally, he stood, moving to the door and calling out toward the forge.

"Adrianne! Come here!"

The sound of the bellows ceased after a moment and the Redguard woman appeared in the doorway, wiping the sweat from her brow with her forearm. She looked from Sandor to her husband, eyebrows high on her forehead.

"Yes?"

He led her to the counter, handing over one of the scales. "He wants a full suit of armor from these, for the woman who hired him. The Breton, with the silver hair."

She examined the scales for a moment before nodding in appreciation. "You were wise to bring these to me. They'll make good armor. Light, but strong. Stronger than anything else I've ever worked with."

"How many would it take for a full suit?" he asked again.

She considered it for a moment, brow furrowed. "For a woman her size...I would say...around a dozen. I can fortify any gaps with iron and bind it with leather to keep it light. Are these the only ones you have?"

Sandor nodded. "For now. But, Skyrim doesn't seem to be lacking dragons these days."

She laughed wryly at that and then nodded slowly. "I should be able to make a pair of boots and gauntlets from what's here. One thousand gold should cover it, or twenty-five hundred if you want to pay for the full set now. Are you staying in Whiterun long?"

He shook his head. "Only passing through."

"Add another fifty and I'll send a courier with it when it's finished."

Sandor was loathe to hand over so much of his gold, but, if it meant the difference between life and death for his young companion, then it was at least gold well spent.

When he counted the coins out onto the counter she nodded toward her husband to collect them and then lifted the scales. "Where should it be delivered?"

Sandor followed her as she walked back outside to her forge. "High Hrothgar. Or, Ivarstead, if your courier isn't willing to climb the seven thousand steps."

Adrianne raised her eyebrows. "Very well. They should be finished within a fortnight. When you have more scales, send them here and I'll make the rest."

He was turning to go when she spoke up again, her voice lowered conspiratorially. "I heard about what happened at the Western watchtower. The girl...is...is she really...?" She trailed off, looking up at him expectantly.

After a moment, he nodded, and she shook her head in amazement. "I thought it was just a story Ulfberth told. Not something I would ever live to see."

Sandor laughed sardonically. "That makes two of us."

She smiled and then looked back to the scales in her hands. "If she can really do what the stories say, then the least I can do is make sure she has the best damn armor in Skyrim. Gods be with you both."

Thanking her, he departed, heading for the Bannered Mare. Dany was finishing a bowl of apple cabbage stew in the corner when he arrived and he ordered a venison steak and bottle of mead from the barkeep before joining her.

"I've commissioned some armor for you," he said, sitting across from her and taking a long drink. "Dragonscale. It should help keep you alive when I'm not around anymore."

Dany raised her eyebrows, but said nothing. They hadn't properly discussed when he would leave her service, but they both knew that he would return to Solitude one day, and she didn't expect him to be at her side when she faced Alduin on the field of battle.

He ate his meal quickly and they returned to the road, hoping to make it to Ivarstead before nightfall. Initially, they set a quick pace but when they reached the mountain trail that led to the town, the sky darkened and it began to rain.

By the time they reached the Vilemyr Inn they were thoroughly soaked and it was well after dark. Paying for two rooms, they both ordered a warm bath and fell into a fitful slumber, each plagued by their own nightmares as they tried in vain to prepare themselves for another journey up the seven thousand steps.

* * *

Daenerys was still asleep when Sandor dragged himself into the common room and when she didn't rouse at his knock, he wandered out into the town. It was far livelier than it had been during their first visit as its citizens drank and laughed in celebration of the New Life festival.

He was feeding Stranger an apple when an older man approached him, offering a bottle of mead. He was one of the town fisherman, and Sandor had heard him called Klimmek.

"You're the sellsword with the Breton woman aren't you? Going up to High Hrothgar again?" When Sandor nodded, he continued. "Do you think you could do me a favor? I have a delivery of supplies for the monks up there, but I'm getting older and the journey's getting more and more dangerous."

The sellsword nodded again. "Aye, we can take it for you."

Klimmek offered his thanks but remained where he was, his gaze distant and dreamy as he watched the revelers from afar.

Sandor followed his stare and then raised his eyebrow. "Farmer's daughter, eh?"

He looked sheepish. "Aye. Fastred. One moment she's smiling at me, the next I can't even meet her eyes. I don't suppose she'd ever fall for a man like me."

Sandor shrugged and scratched absently at the beard that had been growing in patchily around his burns for the past few moons. "You never know."

Klimmek shook his head. "I'm far too old."

Sandor looked between the two of them. Fastred appeared to be of an age with Daenerys, and Klimmek in his early forties. Far more significant than the eleven years that separated him and Sansa, but still, he understood how the older man felt.

"Besides," Klimmek continued. "I'm just a fisherman, and she wants to see the world. I can't give her that."

"Well, perhaps you should tell her how you feel," Sandor offered, somewhat drily. He had little interest in playing the matchmaker, but neither did he want this man to face the same separation he was being forced to endure. "If you don't fight for her she'll end up in another man's arms."

The fisherman turned to him with a wide-eyed stare. "You mean, I should just...tell her?" He looked back at Fastred with something that looked like dawning realization. "Ysmir's beard...you're right. No fish was ever caught by staying away from the shore." He downed his drink as Sandor cocked an eyebrow at the fish analogy and then marched purposefully toward the young woman.

Sandor watched their interaction for a moment before turning away with a snort of derision and running a hand along Stranger's neck. "It may be a while before we come back down the mountain," he explained to the courser. "You'd best get used to this town. And don't hurt anyone too badly while I'm gone." Stranger whickered softly in reply and nudged his nose against Sandor's shoulder, earning an affectionate pat.

When the silver mare beside him let out a whinny Sandor looked over to see Daenerys approaching, a slight smile playing at her lips.

"You Nords have odd customs."

He looked back toward the revelers, many of them abandoning their drinks and beginning to strip off their clothes as a few of the others lit a roaring bonfire beside the river. "I suppose."

"What does it represent?"

Sandor sighed, brow furrowed. "It shows that we have no fear of what the cold brings, and that at the end of a winter's journey there's always a warm fire and good company." He crossed his arms over his chest and leaned against the stable wall. "It's all a load of horseshit if you ask me."

"You don't celebrate it?"

He shook his head. "Not for a long time." But if he had ever wished for a new life, it was now.

When he felt her gaze on his face he tilted it away. "What do you Bretons do?"

Dany smiled, but her eyes grew misty. "I actually remember it. I can't remember what my mother and father looked like, but I remember the palace as a child, filled with performers. They juggled and swallowed knives and..." She laughed quietly. "I remember that Viserys tried to learn how to breathe fire, but he hated the alcohol and spit it out."

She watched as Fastred and Klimmek leapt shrieking into the icy waters, hand in hand, her expression growing wistful. "But that was a long time ago."

They stood together watching the celebrations, both thinking of their distant childhoods. So many things had changed since then. Sixteen long years ago, as Viserys fled from High Rock with his sister, Sandor killed his first man on the field of battle. Neither had been the same since that year. Not even the festival was as simple as it had once been.

Sandor sighed and looked down at his companion. "Are you ready?"

She nodded, turning her gaze to the Throat of the World. Her expression was one of steely resolve.

"Yes. We should be on our way. It's a long journey, and the Greybeards have much to answer for."


	12. Peace (Arya II)

**A/N:** Hey, sorry for being a day late. I'm at that point in the semester where I have a lot of work I need to do and I can't find the right balance between getting things done and doing things for myself so I don't go crazy. But yeah anyway, here you go. As always, many thanks to my beta reader (and sister) **GrowlingPeanut**. Reviews are appreciated.

 **Disclaimer:** Everything belongs to Bethesda Softworks and George R. R. Martin. Except for Solara but she's really barely in here, so it's barely worth mentioning.

 **Rating:** M for violence and gore.

* * *

Arya found herself unable to sleep once again, her mind whirling as it presented endless scenarios for her journey to Driftshade Refuge. In one, she saw herself tearing the Silver Hand limb from limb and stripping the skin from their bones. In another, she imagined being captured and tortured as Vilkas had once been, stretched across a rack as she was flayed alive out of petty hatred and fear.

Finally, she rose, the sky still dark and the twin moons hanging high above. She opened the satchel that sat atop a chair in the corner of her room and began to fill it with dried, salted meats, some hard bits of tangy cheese, and a few bruised apples. It wouldn't take long to reach her destination, but she preferred to be over-prepared, and did not know what to expect when she reached the fort.

For a moment, she considered donning her armor, but it would only prove a hindrance if she transformed, and she did not want to be Arya Stark the Stormcloak Snow-Hammer when she arrived. She wanted to be Arry, and no one more: a girl, tainted blood surging hot through her veins, foolishly in love, and most importantly, intent on revenge.

She donned a loose white tunic and a pair of dark, fitted trousers. It was an outfit that Taarie and Endarie would loathe, and she appreciated it all the more for that. As the High Queen's sister, they insisted on fitting her for myriad ornate gowns, but as of yet, she had been able to avoid their attempts under her guise as a city guard and former soldier.

Shouldering the pack, Arya nudged open her door and then hesitated. She returned to the table beside her bed, opening the top drawer and removing the sketched likeness of her dead lover. Before she could reconsider, she tucked it into the pack, hastily shoving it to the bottom when she heard approaching footsteps.

As she turned, Ralof passed by her open door and she heard the sound of his boots falter and then turn as he appeared in the doorway.

"Are you leaving?"

She nodded.

"For what?"

"Something personal," Arya replied vaguely.

He cocked an eyebrow. "What should I tell Ulfric if he asks?"

"He won't. He already has a Stark to occupy his time."

At that, Ralof quieted. Eventually, he nodded, sighing. "I'll keep watch over your sister while you're away."

Arya laughed bitterly. "Feel free, but I can already tell you what you'll see. She'll go to the Temple, praying to the Gods she still somehow believes in, and then wander through the streets until it grows dark. At night, you'll hear Ulfric let himself into her chambers and when he leaves you'll hear her crying. The next morning, it's back to the Temple, but this time she'll have a new bruise somewhere, because even when she doesn't fight back he likes to hit her." Ralof opened his mouth to speak but she shook her head. "Don't try to deny it. I wish more than anything else that I could save her from this life, but instead, I helped push it upon her. We both did."

"Whatever else Ulfric is," Ralof said quietly, "he is still our king."

Arya scoffed, her expression dark. "I won't claim to know your motivations, but I didn't fight that war to put him on the throne."

"Your brother did."

She took a step toward him, lips curled back in a snarl. "Don't you dare presume to speak for Robb. From what I've heard, you're the one who put his head on the gods damned block."

Ralof recoiled visibly at that and she saw a guilt in his eyes that was all too familiar. "There's not a single moment that I don't regret the part I played in his death. He was..." He trailed off, looking distractedly over her shoulder. "Robb meant a lot to me, and I fought to give Ulfric the throne in his memory, and in his honor. Your father and your brother both died for Ulfric to rule and I wouldn't let that be in vain."

Though she was loathe to admit it, the man before her knew more of the man her brother had become than she did, and so she stayed silent. For a moment, they simply held each other's gaze. It was Ralof who broke away first, his eyes falling to his boots as he stepped back to allow her past.

"Go then. Do what you need to. I won't stop you or demand an answer. We all have our secrets."

Arya nodded and shouldered past him, the weight of his gaze on her back as she walked down the hallway and out into the yard of Castle Dour. The city was quiet and still. For now, Solitude slept, but come morning the fourth day of New Life festivities would commence, and her streets would fill with light and laughter once more.

The slapping of leather on cobblestone was loud in the silence of the night, overshadowed only by the lapping of waves as she made her way to the docks. A Nord named Jolf sat on the dock beside a small rowboat, rings of smoke puffing from the pipe between his lips and getting swallowed by the early morning fog.

"Looking to go somewhere?"

"Dawnstar."

He nodded slowly, exhaling a puff of smoke and squinting across the bay. "Fifty septims and I'll get you there by sunset. One hundred and you'll be there by midday."

She silently withdrew a handful of ten septim coins and let them drop into his waiting palm. He counted them as she settled onto the far end of the rowboat. One hundred septims was more than she was willing to part with, and she had much to spend the day thinking about.

After putting the coins in his purse, he tapped out what remained in his pipe and then took the seat across from Arya.

"You just enjoy the fresh air and leave the rowing to me. You'll be to Dawnstar by nightfall; on that, you have my word."

* * *

As Jolf had promised, the sun was just setting below the mountains when they tied off at the Dawnstar docks. Thanking him, Arya stepped to the snowy shore. Nearly three moons before, she had left Dawnstar to join the Stormcloak army, and she could hardly believe what had transpired in that time.

She could so vividly remember the feel of the nobleman's blood as it seeped between her fingers, and the touch of Jaqen's cold hands on her skin that night when she slipped into his bed. She had asked him to take her that night, with the body of her dead lover, and she sometimes wondered what would have become of them if he had accepted. She was sure he wouldn't have been able to face her after if he had given in and allowed them both to live out the lie of her desperate fantasy. Instead, they had fallen together without pretense, Gendry's blood still staining her skin as she sought vengeance for the injustice that had been wrought upon Vilkas.

Though she doubted she would ever stop loving Vilkas, she hoped that wiping the Silver Hand from the face of Nirn would help put his spirit to rest, and her own. Jaqen deserved her whole heart, and she could not continue to live with her guilt.

Driftshade Refuge wasn't far from the edge of the town, nestled in the snowy hills that lay beyond Nightcaller Temple. She walked toward it slowly, her footsteps silent but her heart pounding loudly in her ears. Turning away from its heavy iron door, she approached from the back end of the fort, her eyes trained firmly on the sentry that sat above the entrance.

He was not expecting an approach from behind and so there was no resistance when she slid her dagger across his throat, only a momentary tensing of his muscles before his blood flowed hot across her clenched fist. She let his body fall to the ground as she lifted her hand to her lips, tongue darting out to wipe the crimson stain from her skin. Her nostrils flared as a sharp heat surged through her veins, but she closed her eyes until it passed. When the time came, she would allow herself to turn, but not until she had the human flesh that would be needed to sustain her.

Untying their laces, she left her boots beside the door with her pack, keeping her gaze away from the stakes that flanked the doorway, each topped with the severed head of a werewolf. She allowed herself a cursory glance to see if either belonged to one of her fellow Companions, and relief eased her muscles when she saw that they did not. Many others in Skyrim had accepted Hircine's gift, and though the Silver Hand had declared the Companion's Circle their highest priority, the others were not immune to the silver of their swords and the hatred in their hearts.

She slipped through the heavy iron door, closing it silently behind her as she ducked into the shadows and allowed her eyesight to adjust to the dim light. Pupils wide, she began her careful descent down the stairs that greeted her. At their end was another door and beyond it, a balcony that surrounded a large room. There were two warriors in the chamber below, one sharpening his sword and the other cutting apart a venison steak.

Arya could hear the blood that pulsed through their veins as its iron tang filled her nostrils. With a snarl, she gave over control, descending the stairs to their level as her body began to shift and change. For a moment they stared at her in stunned silence and by the time their hands reached for their weapons, her claws had opened the first man's chest, ripping out his heart. The other watched in horror as she tore into the still pulsing organ, her snout stained black as she stalked toward him. His head was twisted from his shoulders with its eyes still wide in fear.

She heard a cry of alarm from an adjoining chamber and dropped to all fours, racing across the room with inhuman speed and slashing apart the soldier within. The woman gurgled unintelligibly as she fell heavily to the floor, her throat ripped free as her face was sprayed with blood.

Arya knew that the woman's alert would have been heard but she found that she didn't care. If the Divines or Daedra decided it was her time to join Hircine then she would go with the blood of her lover's killers heavy in her belly, and if they had a plan for her yet, then she would tear through each and every one of them until not a trace of the Silver Hand remained.

She was met at the next room by two soldiers, their silver swords in hand. She hissed as one slashed across her tough hide, its glinting metal leaving an ugly scratch. Before the other could do the same, both were shredded by her bloodied claws, their tortured cries ringing in her ears.

A long hall met her as she continued on and she took the time to check each room that lined it, intent on leaving not a single soul alive. The Silver Hand would end here, tonight, before anyone else could meet the same horrible end that Vilkas had endured.

In one of the rooms she found the fort's barracks, and a soldier who had managed to sleep through the dying screams of his companions. Arya ripped a jagged hole through his torso and bent her head to shred the warm, sweet meat from his ribs. Vilkas had only rarely allowed himself to eat humans while in his beast form, and for the most part, Arya had followed his example. But she couldn't deny the satisfaction that filled her as she reduced the Silver Hand soldiers to mere scraps of flesh, their meat tender and yielding beneath her fangs.

Licking her thin lips, she returned to the hallway, loping to the door at the end and descending to the fort's cellar as it opened before her. A winding maze of barrels and crates met her and she wove through them, stalking the sound of patrolling footfalls. A shrill cry of terror was all the sentry could manage.

As she crossed another large chamber she saw cells shrouded in shadow, the corpses of her kind rotting within. The smell of decaying flesh and burnt fur made her stomach turn and she forced herself to peer through the haze of buzzing flies, searching for those she had known. Again, the slaughtered beasts were not those from the Companions and she breathed a sigh of relief.

The room beyond had been carved from a natural cavern, its floors slick with ice and coated with the powdery snow that had fallen from the sky only barely visible above. Several more cells had been erected in the chamber and she approached each in turn. After a brief glance, she prepared to move on, but a slight flicker of movement in one of them made her pause. She turned to see a human man curled in one of the cell's darkened corners, his chest only barely rising and falling with dangerously shallow breaths.

He was unconscious but still alive, if only just, his chin lolled down against his chest. His lips were cracked and bloody, his long, dark hair matted with dirt and oil, the black paint around his eyes smudged in a way that made them look bruised and swollen.

As she stared, heart in her throat, a vision flickered to life behind her wild eyes. She could see that same body, torn and mutilated. Eyes lifeless, beard crusted with blood and vomit. The flames had reduced that ruined corpse to ash, but its image remained clear in her mind, projected onto the man before her.

"Vilkas...?" His name left her lips of its own accord, softly, almost desperately. She knew who it was before her, but her heart longed desperately to believe that it had been deceived.

At the sound of his brother's name Farkas raised his head and met Arya's gaze through a familiar pair of ice blue eyes, hazy with pain and fatigue. They brightened with recognition and he shuffled to his feet, hands curling around the bars of the cell for support as he stood before her.

"Arya?"

She nodded, not trusting herself to speak again.

"What are you doing here? We haven't seen you since..." He trailed off, and the responding pang of guilt sent a defensive reply tumbling from her bloodied lips.

"He deserved to be avenged."

For a moment, she thought that he would condemn her quest for revenge, but after a long sigh, he nodded.

"I know. That's why I'm here. Aela wrote me, saying she found a map in some of Kodlak's old things that suggested this might be a fortress for the Silver Hand. She was supposed to come with me, but she went into labor, so I came alone. I was reckless and angry and I've never been as smart as Vilkas was, so they caught me too. I'm glad you're here."

"So am I." She knew well enough that the Silver Hand cared little whether the members of the Circle had renounced their gift and burning the tortured body of Vilkas' identical twin would have been too much for her to bear.

Arya could feel the haze of rage fading slowly to the fringes of her mind and she hurriedly released Farkas from his cage, unwilling to return to her human body.

"Follow me," she ordered. "Fight if you can, and if you can't, wait until you hear the screams die down."

Farkas nodded, his expression grim.

As they walked on, the floor grew slick beneath their feet, leading the way from the farthest cage to a gruesome torture chamber. Farkas raised a hand to cover his nose and mouth as he surveyed the scene. Arya looked around with a mixture of disgust and anger. It was somewhere like this that Vilkas had been beaten and flayed, ripped apart piece by piece until Gendry Waters had finally given him the mercy of a swift death. Now, both men responsible were dead, but it did not make Vilkas any less so.

"I never thanked you for burning his body," Farkas said quietly, voice muffled beneath his palm. "I don't know if I could have seen what they did."

Arya nodded silently, her throat painfully tight as hot tears welled in her eyes.

"Come on," she said finally, the words shaky and unsure. "There are others still here."

The hall that met them led to another balcony, overlooking a massive chamber with a fire burning at its far edge. There were two soldiers pacing its length, neither aware of the eyes that watched from above. Arya exchanged a glance with her companion and he nodded.

Her paws had just touched the stone below when she heard a roar from above and she turned just in time to see a massive black werewolf leap from the balcony, teeth bared and blue eyes wild. For a moment, she was frozen, painful memories drowning out the shrill cries of terror. She had refused to be a wife, but not a mate, and she had loved him desperately: the beast with the dark fur and pale eyes, fierce and powerful, but in the end, not strong enough to survive.

It was the silence that broke her from her trance and she turned her gaze to her companion as he sat hunched over a steaming corpse. His shoulders were too broad, his fur a shade too dark, and where Vilkas' eyes had shone with a sharp and frightening intelligence, Farkas' burned only with a dull and unquestioning anger.

The sounds of combat had drawn the attention of the fort's last inhabitants and they rushed into the room, swords raised. One wore the armor of an officer, no doubt the last remaining leader of what had once been a full branch of the mighty Imperial Legion. Four others flanked their commander, weapons at the ready, but eyes filled with fear.

"What are you waiting for?" the leader snarled. "Kill these abominations."

They advanced obediently and Arya and Farkas met them in the center of the room, silver blades clashing against claws that dripped with what remained of their fallen brethren. Farkas snarled as the glinting metal slashed across his chest and his retaliating strike sent a fine mist of gore splattering across five pairs of boots. The first body fell with a heavy thud and the next two joined it in moments, Arya's teeth rending through leather and bone as Farkas' massive paws twisted a soldier's head clear around.

When only one remained, the officer joined in the fray. He managed to cut a deep gash across one of Arya's shoulders and she knew it was only a matter of time before the silver's poison seeped into her tainted veins. If she could turn human soon enough, it would be nothing more then a deep cut, but if she stayed in her beast form, it would fester and burn.

Farkas killed the final soldier with a savage growl and then turned his attention to the last living testament to the Silver Hand. Sidestepping a vicious swipe of her claws, the man lunged forward, his sword plunging through Arya's chest and wrenching from his grip. She howled in pain and he staggered backward, the color draining from his face as he found himself unarmed and faced with two pairs of narrow, rage-filled eyes.

"Please," he begged. "Don't kill me. I don't want to die. I'll run away, I'll forget all about you and your kind."

Arya lumbered forward, her gaze black and unforgiving as she ignored his pleas. "The Silver Hand once killed a man. His name was Vilkas, and your men at Gallow's Rock tortured him for nothing more than what he was. I burned a body I hardly recognized and then brought your stronghold to the ground. Do you remember?"

His eyes widened at that. "Gallow's Rock? That was...that was _you_?" She snarled and he flinched away. "I had no part in what happened there. I never knew a Vilkas, I swear."

"But if he had been here," Arya growled. "You would have been his killer. And so here we are. The Silver Hand will die with you so you can never make another feel the pain you caused us."

Her teeth bared in a grimace of pain and he wailed through his final moments, allowed a death that was cleaner and swifter than what his kind had granted Vilkas.

As his head rolled to her feet she allowed herself to succumb to her pain, sinking to the ground as she felt fumblingly around the blade of the silver sword buried deep in her shoulder. In a moment, Farkas was at her side, his claws retreating as a wan face returned to meet her frenzied eyes.

"Don't turn back," he said desperately, offering a shoulder when she staggered toward him. "It'll kill you if you do. Stay angry, Arya. Remember what they did to him."

She did as he commanded, closing her eyes and conjuring up every image of Vilkas that she could still recall. She thought of their mornings spent in bed, their days under the heat of the sun, the dust of the training yard clinging to their boots, their nights hunting beneath the full moons. She remembered the anger that gripped her tight as Gendry's life flowed into the dirt beneath the Gildergreen.

Their life together flashed behind her eyelids as Farkas dragged her out of the fort, his steps weak but persistent.

"Where can I take you? Who knows what you are? You won't live to reach Whiterun." They emerged beneath the light of the moons and she opened her eyes, gesturing vaguely toward Dawnstar's thatched roofs.

"On the beach," she said hoarsely. "There's a door. Innocence, my brother."

Farkas frowned, but followed the direction, using what remained of his strength to support her weight as they stumbled toward the stony shore. The edges of her vision began to grow dark as the door appeared before them and she fell from Farkas' grasp as it rasped its cryptic question.

"What is life's greatest illusion?"

Her body felt cold, too cold, and as the snow drank the essence from her poisoned veins, she answered the voice that echoed in her mind.

 _Peace, my brother._

* * *

For eight long days, Babette treated Arya's wounds while Farkas and Solara took turns watching over her. The scar from Rorge's blade had barely healed and now there was another beside it. Whether she wanted to believe it or not, it seemed that the gods had a plan for her which she did not understand. If it was peace that she longed for, she would not find it in death. Not yet.

Farkas was at her side when she woke at last, looking decidedly out of place in the Dark Brotherhood sanctuary with his bulky steel armor and heavy war paint. Arya coughed weakly as his gaze shifted toward her and she pulled herself up, a longing ache rising in her chest as she realized that she had been placed in what had once been her and Jaqen's room. It was empty now, save for her lingering memories.

"Farkas..." she rasped, coughing once more. "What happened to you? When I left, you were...human. You had left the Circle behind."

He nodded slowly. "Yes. I did. But then Vilkas died. Our curse had been so important to his life with you, and I thought...I thought that if I turned myself again, he would seem nearer."

"Did it work?"

Even before he shook his head, she knew the answer. "He's still dead, and I lost my wife to my anger. She was forgiving for a time, but I cared more about revenge than I did her, and when she realized it, she left." He looked back at the woman who had almost been his sister. "Don't let that happen to you."

Arya avoided his gaze. She knew what he said was true, but she had tried to forget, and each time Vilkas returned to her in her dreams, his lifeless eyes all-knowing. He saw her guilt, felt the weight of her responsibility, and when she woke, every smile that Jaqen brought to her lips felt like the worst kind of betrayal.

Her eyes began to fill with tears and as she wiped them angrily away Farkas spoke again, his voice soft. "Are you happy, Arya?"

She hesitated, clenching her damp sleeve in her fist and contemplating a lie that would leave them on better terms. In the end, she couldn't lie to him, not when he had nearly been family to her once, in another lifetime. "I don't know."

Farkas nodded. "He would want you to be, you know. It wasn't your fault what happened. Don't spend the rest of your life blaming yourself for something someone else did to him."

Arya nodded silently. Although she hadn't dealt the killing blow, she did feel as though she held some measure of the blame for Vilkas' death. If she had agreed to marry him he would never have been in the woods alone that night, and he would never have been captured. When she was with Jaqen it was easier to forget, but with him gone and Vilkas' twin sitting beside her, she could do nothing but remember.

"If you ever tire of the politics in Solitude, there's always a home for you at Jorrvaskr."

Though Arya nodded again, she knew that she would never return. Jorrvaskr had been home to a woman she no longer was, as had the sanctuary around her.

That night, when the sky grew dark and the moons found their rightful place among the stars, she left those lives behind her. There was still a weight upon her shoulders, but she felt that its burden had been lightened and she began the walk to Solitude with a mind that was clear and blank.

Someday, the gods would grant her her peace, but while she waited, there were those who still remained, and it was for them that she would live.


	13. From Beyond the Grave (Jaqen II)

**A/N:** Hey, all. Sorry for the long delay. Had to get through finals and I wasn't able to get caught up on my writing for this story. That being said, since I'm still behind schedule, the next update will still be two weeks from today and then from there on out it'll be back to its regular every other week for the foreseeable future. As for this chapter, credit where credit is due to Supernatural season 7 for some inspiration. I'm watching it for my sister right now and it was kinda helpful for Jaqen's current situation. Minus Mark Pellegrino and plus a bunch of eyes and tentacles. :/ Other than that nothing to say. So just read and enjoy. As always, many thanks to my beta reader (and sister) **GrowlingPeanut**. Reviews are appreciated.

 **Disclaimer:** Everything belongs to Bethesda Softworks and George R. R. Martin. Specifically, I grabbed Ildari's journals from UESP so they were written by someone with Bethesda and only slightly edited at points by me.

 **Rating:** M for violence and minor gore, allusions to torture, and some minor language.

* * *

When the Listener sent Jaqen to the shores of Solstheim, she had done so with a warning. _"There is some strange interference coming from the island..."_

The power behind that interference was known to him now; it was the Daedric Prince of Fate that held the island in his grasp. Though Hermaeus Mora had concerns far more important than the Dark Brotherhood assassin who had infiltrated his control, the woman he watched would not travel to Solstheim for many years; not until the World-Eater lie dead and she wore the crown she sought, if such events came to pass. So, for the time being, Hermaeus would enjoy the plaything that had wandered onto his cursed island. He could be used to the Prince's advantage, and he would prove an amusing diversion.

If Hermaeus' meddling proved too much for the mortal and he joined his Dread Father in the Void, so be it. Men were expendable, and he could find another to serve his purpose.

As Jaqen heaved open the heavy iron door of Highpoint Tower, the air about him shimmered, briefly, for a moment so short he thought he had imagined it. In that second, he was not in Highpoint Tower, but back in Apocrypha, surrounded by thick black ichor and spinning pages. Frowning, he shook his head and the dim, ashy room returned.

If what Neloth had said was true then Jaqen doubted that Ildari would be shocked by her former master's assassination attempt. In fact, he was certain that she would be expecting it, and that she would be prepared.

The first room that opened before him was small, its main feature the spiral staircase that wound down into the depths of the crumbling tower. Its stone walls were weathered with age and coated in a fine layer of dust. In the piles of ash that covered the ground were cracked barrels and the bleached bones of those who had come before him.

Taking a deep breath, Jaqen crossed his hands over his hips and drew his daggers in one smooth motion. The battle that awaited him would not be easy, but Ildari would not be the first to fall beneath his blades, nor the last.

His boots were silent on the stone stairs, muffled by dust, ash, and a whispered incantation from his lips. As he approached the first landing, the torch that lit the stairs wavered and blew out. For a moment, he was in complete darkness. In the sudden blackness, he felt a cold, wet touch against his skin, but when he murmured a spell and his eyes adjusted, he was alone again. His skin was dry against his fingertips, but an unpleasant sensation remained and he could not shake the touch from his limbs.

Eager to distract himself, he approached the small table on the landing. There was an inkwell atop it, beside a quill and a leather-bound journal. Replacing one of his daggers, he lifted the journal and cracked it open, reading the words within.

 _The fools have taken me in. Weak, pathetic men intent on looting this ancient fortress with their crude mining. Niyya is pleasant enough. I may choose to spare her when the time comes._

 _I'm still weak from Neloth's betrayal. He promised me power and glory. He failed to mention the constant pain. And the voices. By the three, I would do anything to not hear the voices._

 _When my strength returns, I will have my vengeance upon my former master. I can feel the power of the heart stone beating inside me. I need to find a way to tap into it. Then he shall pay in blood and fire._

Frowning, Jaqen replaced the journal. Although Neloth had been targeted by her magick and the creatures which she had created, he still lived. Surely, she wasn't through with her revenge. He feared what she might yet have planned.

After another landing and several flights of stairs, Jaqen found himself in a wide, earthen chamber. To the left were shimmering veins of different colored gems, but among them, flames flickered unnaturally, skittering about on spindly legs.

Turning away from the allure of the sparkling jewels, he walked deeper into the ruins, up a small staircase and into a long dark tunnel. It was crumbling beneath the weight of the tower above, wooden beams placed haphazardly to prevent the complete degradation of the clay walls. The sound of slow, dragging footsteps echoed along its length and for a moment they were joined by the faint rustle of turning pages and a low, familiar chuckle.

Shaken, he pressed a clenched fist into the gash across his thigh. He gritted his teeth against the pain, but it cleared his mind, returning him to the bowels of the tower and smearing his hand with blood that was a slick, comforting red.

 _Sithis keep me sane_ , he thought absently. He didn't want to believe that it was true, but some part of his mind suggested that he had never left Apocrypha behind. When he least expected it, he was back in its halls and sometimes, he was unable to tell if the visions were the truth or a figment of his deteriorating mind, driven mad by the poison seeping into his veins.

 _"Sithis may still have a hold on you, but he has no power here,"_ a voice whispered in reply. _"You are in my realm, son of Verick, and it is here you will remain."_

Shaking his head, Jaqen lurched unsteadily onward, ducking into a room off from the hall. Inside, two of Ildari's ash spawn stood with flaming blades in hand, their black eyes vacant and their stone hearts beating slowly through the layers of hard, volcanic ash.

He snuck up easily behind the first, plunging one of his daggers through its thick hide and pulling the heart stone from the hollow that formed. As it crumbled to ash in his hand, so too did the creature bound to it, and when the other bellowed and began its unsteady charge, Jaqen met it with a glowing orb of red light, forcing it to flee as it was overcome with a sudden, urgent panic.

Before the spell wore off and the ash spawn wandered back to its fallen companion, Jaqen searched the room, effortlessly unlocking a strongbox half buried in ash and pocketing the gems within before returning to the hall and limping onward.

Lost in his thoughts and trying in vain to disregard the flashes of movement and waves of thick air that wafted from beyond the mortal realm, Jaqen nearly missed the thin cord that stretched across the doorway before him.

He tripped backward in his haste to avoid the trap and the golden hue of his cheeks flushed red as an amused snicker rose in his mind. He ignored the voice as it taunted him in its low drawl and surveyed the room before him.

Inside, several more of Ildari's ash spawn wandered aimlessly about, dull flashes of red pulsing from within their hardened chests. Raising his gaze to the ceiling, he found the trap itself: a net of massive jagged stones which would snap and tumble down when the wire was tripped. Carefully, he knelt down and after positioning himself along the wall on the far side of the doorway, cut the wire with one of his daggers.

With a crash, the boulders fell, spraying the unsuspecting creatures across the chamber in a fine mist of blackened ash. Once he was sure that they were all gone and that the room was free from other traps, Jaqen stood. As he walked into the large, circular room, a voice greeted him.

"So you are the one my former master sent to end my life again?" It was a feminine voice, but tinted with the rasp that belonged to Morrowind's native race. "You may be more clever than the last, but you will prove just as weak. Come, Altmer. Try to fulfill the task you have been given. It will amuse me to watch your progress."

At her words, he looked about and his gaze fell upon a pedestal at the far corner of the room, a soul gem glowing gently upon it. Striding toward it, he reached out and grabbed the gem. It fell from his fingers as it singed them and he crushed it beneath his heel as he hissed through his teeth at the pain. Although the resulting throb in his fingertips was unpleasant, it had cleared the growing darkness from the edges of his vision and for that he was grateful.

"So be it," Ildari answered. "You will not stay hidden for long, assassin. And if you manage to survive my traps and conjurations, I will look into your eyes as I rip the life from your body. Mark my words."

She quieted and he looked around the room once more. In one corner there was a table littered with tomes and fragments of dark, swirling gems, a testament to her skills in the arcane arts. At the other side was a torture rack that appeared to be well-used, and atop a stump of wood a bloodied axe remained beside the hand it had removed.

The sight brought a frown to his lips and not for the first time, his mind wandered to a night nearly three moons ago. Sometimes, he wondered if, had he broken his focus on Arya for a moment, he could have saved Vilkas' life. Sometimes, he wondered if a part of him had known that, and had chosen to do nothing.

In the end, his thoughts were broken by a voice, distant and desperate. Was it that of the sorceress, he wondered, or the Daedric Prince who lived somewhere in his poisoned conscious? Against his better judgement, he followed the sound and it led him to a small prison. It was neither Ildari nor Hermaeus Mora, but a young Redguard woman in tattered robes, her hands and feet bound.

"Please," she begged. "Set me free. Or if you're here to kill me, make it swift. That's a kindness she won't give me if she returns."

Silently, Jaqen picked the lock of her cell and then knelt beside her. He cut through her bonds with one slice and she struggled wearily to her feet.

"Thank you for rescuing me," she said softly. "That witch was going to kill me soon, I just know it."

"A man does not deserve a woman's thanks," Jaqen replied flatly. "How did this come to pass?" He cared little for the woman's life either way, but if she knew things that could help him complete his contract, then she could be of use.

"We were digging these mines when she found us," the Redguard replied, rubbing absently at her wrists. "She was hurt so bad...We took pity on her and nursed her back to health." She raised her gaze to meet Jaqen's, her expression one of bitter resentment. "She repaid our kindness by attacking us in the middle of the night. Those of us that didn't die she locked up and made prisoners."

"What did she do to those who lived?" His gaze fell to the other two cells, both empty, but for bones and ash.

His companion followed his eyes, her complexion growing pale. "Horrible things. Experiments and...worse." She shook her head and gestured toward the small table in the center of the room. There was a journal on its charred surface, identical to the one he had found earlier, but stained with blood. "She took...notes, in that. There may be details of her torture there, if you care to know." When Jaqen idly picked it up, she continued. "The others are all dead now. I'm the only one left, and I don't intend to stay."

When Jaqen gave a cursory nod, she limped toward the door. She was nearly out of the room when she hesitated and turned back. "If you find her..." Jaqen looked up and met her eyes. "Don't make her end quick."

The sound of uneven footsteps signaled her departure and his gaze fell once again to the open journal in his hands and the words within.

 _I am stronger now. The heart stone kept me alive after Neloth's butchery. I can feel the bones in the ash calling to me from beyond the grave. I can call back to them too. With the heart stone I can bind spirits to bone and ash and raise a servant to do my bidding._

 _Tonight, I will seize control. These miners and fortune seekers are pawns of Neloth. I can feel them staring at me. I'm sure they are sending him messages, reporting on my every move. The only ones I can trust are the voices. They've never lied to me. They've shown me that these fools plan to betray me, just as Neloth did._

 _When they are asleep, I will raise my ash spawn. Their brute of a leader will die first. I can see the lust in his heart. He may act kind and generous, but I know what he wants. What they all want. The heart stone._

 _I'll keep a few prisoners. I need test subjects for my experiments. There is more that the heart stone can do, I am sure of it. I just need to try out a few ideas..._

The journal continued on for several pages, detailing the experiments she had conducted. Most had proved failures and those mistakes had died slow, brutal deaths. Jaqen wasn't sure he had saved the prisoner from the same.

He returned the journal to its place and pressed onward, across rickety wooden bridges that had been erected for the mining expedition which Ildari had brought to a swift and bloody end. The mine stretched onward, deeper and deeper, sloping downward into the bowels of the earth.

When he heard the shuffling of footsteps, his lips formed a familiar incantation. If the creatures that passed had the capacity for any deep insight, they would have seen the ephemeral shimmer of a section of the wall, but, as it were, they lumbered away, ignorant of the intruder. Jaqen winked back into view with a sigh of relief.

"Do you think you can trick me with your glamours?" Ildari asked, snide amusement lacing her words. "The ash spawn cannot harness the powers of the hearts that control them, but I can, through my own. I can see you through the stones in their chests."

As his form wavered and vanished again, the sorceress laughed. "Your illusions are strong, but I am stronger. I cannot see your golden skin or the black leather of your guild, but I can see the feverish heat of your skin and hear the beating of your heart. I do not believe you are long for this world, stranger, but it may not be at my hands that you will die. Time will tell."

The mines opened into a massive stone chamber and Jaqen stilled for a moment, still invisible to Ildari's minions as he stood with his daggers clenched tightly in his fists. In the center of the room was a large stone platform, carved in a circle and lined with pulsing red gems. They did not look the same as those through which Ildari had watched his progress and after a moment, he realized why.

A crumbling stone structure sat atop a path of wooden walkways and at its center was a figure in ornate robes. At her throat a heart stone beat slowly, emitting the same light as the gems. Though she could not see him, she could sense him still and she looked in his direction with a confident smile.

"I am impressed that you made it this far, Altmer. But you've gone far enough. Neloth is a fool to think he could send some low life assassin to finish me off."

Shifting to face the platform, she raised her arms above her head and began to recite a foreign incantation. Jaqen watched warily from his position below. As the ash that coated it began to shift and swirl, the ground beneath him gave way, plunging him without warning into the thick, venomous waters of Apocrypha.

 _"She means to kill you,"_ Hermaeus remarked plainly, looking down on his victim with a thousand unblinking eyes. _"With your foolish quest unfinished, your soul will go to Sithis in the Void and Arya Stark's will join her lover's in Hircine's Hunting Grounds. Such a shame. I looked forward to bargaining with you."_

At the Prince's words, Jaqen plunged his hand beneath the waters and his ragged nails dug roughly into his open wound. The burst of pain that shot from his thigh sent him to his knees but served its purpose. He fell onto solid ground, his spell shattering as his concentration broke.

"Ah, good," Ildari remarked. "I would very much like to see the look in your eyes as my newest experiment tears your limbs from your body."

With those words, the pillar of ash began to take the form of a massive elemental, a heart stone beating at its center as two red eyes fixed on Jaqen's form below.

"Go on, my darlings," the sorceress crooned. "End his pathetic life."

Jaqen was not afraid to die, but he did not want to. Not while Arya lived, and not while her soul belonged to Hircine. Shoving aside his desperation, he summoned his training with the Brotherhood, and the deep emptiness which had served him in the years following his father's death.

With a clear mind, he sheathed both of his daggers and brought his hands together before him. Murmuring the words he had mastered so long ago, he coaxed a swirling crimson orb to life between his open palms and with a yell it burst, sending its magick in a wave across the room. For a moment, the ash spawn that rose at Ildari's command paused in their approach and then, all at once, began to turn on each other.

He heard Ildari yell in rage but ignored the sound, casting a spell which would give him enough strength to face the creature across the room. Drawing his daggers again he ran across the hard ground, bracing on his uninjured leg as he leapt onto the platform, blue eyes blazing bright through the illusion that hid his face.

The monster charged forward to meet him, one of its ashen fists connecting solidly against his head as he ripped a chasm through its chest.

Staggering backward, he shook his head to steady his vision and settled into a defensive position, awaiting its next attack. When it came, he ducked easily beneath its swinging club-like arm and slashed at the other, sending it scattering into a harmless spray of ash.

"Damn you!" Ildari wailed. "You and Neloth and every gods damned man or mer who's ever dared to act against me. I'll show you all! You'll die by my hands and know that I am more powerful than anyone else on Nirn!"

Jaqen heard her retreating footsteps as her servants tore each other to pieces, their corpses blowing through the air and settling on the stony ground. Before him, her latest experiment gave an inhuman roar, sparks bellowing from its gaping mouth and singeing a hundred tiny holes in his leather armor.

He hissed at the pain, but had known worse. Striking out, he slashed his blades in an x across its chest and then dropped their hilts, leaving them buried in the hard volcanic ash as he plunged a hand into the resulting chasm and crushed the heart stone to dust in his fist.

When the conjured creature crumbled to coat his boots, he bent down to retrieve his twin daggers. His spell was fading and the ache in his thigh was returning to join the stinging of the minor burns across his arms and chest.

Favoring his right leg, he climbed to where Ildari had stood only moments before. Inside the structure were various spell tomes and unlabeled potion bottles. He glanced briefly through the former before his eyes settled on a familiar leather tome and he pulled the journal from its place on the shelf.

 _These warrens are well suited to me. I can plot my vengeance undisturbed. I've created many ash spawn and summoned atronachs to do my bidding. Yet I know it isn't enough. Neloth is a wily old wizard. I need more power._

 _I'm out of test subjects, except for Niyya. I saved her for last. She pretended to be my friend when I first came here. But now I know the truth. The voices have told me all about her lies and betrayal. She works with Neloth to bring me down. I've saved a special experiment for her. It will take quite a while to complete._

 _I can't attack Neloth directly. He is too powerful. But I can make his life...uncomfortable. I've killed his steward. I've withered his home. Maybe I should poison his precious tea. I'll need a more capable servant for that. The ash spawn are too clumsy for such delicate work. Perhaps, if he sends another to end my life, their allegiance can be turned._

 _Niyya_ , Jaqen thought absently. Perhaps he had saved her, if Ildari's other experiments were any indication of her twisted nature.

 _Perhaps_ , crooned the Prince of Fate. _Or perhaps you led her to her death nonetheless. Your path to the prison was not clear. There was one ash spawn you turned with your illusions...but let live. Do you suppose it will grant her the same mercy?_

A pang of guilt weakened Jaqen's stomach. He had forgotten about the creature he had allowed to live. Unarmed and weakened from her imprisonment, Niyya stood little chance against it.

Before he could dwell on the feeling, Ildari's voice returned. Her tone was not one of amusement any longer, nor of the rage he had heard moments before. Instead, there was a hint of admiration, and he remembered the final words of the journal in his hand.

"Perhaps you are not as weak as I presumed," she admitted. You flinch away from empty doorways and cover your ears against the silence. You hear them too, don't you? The voices?" When he gave no response, she continued. "Whose do you hear? It's the voices of the dead that echo in my mind. I brought them back from the ash and their voices issue from the heart stones which give them life."

She was silent for a moment and he continued on, through a series of tunnels with walls that threatened to fall around him.

"Is it worth it, do you think?" Ildari asked. "Life, in exchange for your soul? I am not the first to make the exchange and I will not be the last. People are willing to sell their souls for many things. What is the price of yours, stranger?"

 _"You would give it for another's_ ," the voice in his head answered. _"The soul of a woman who still dreams of another man. Is she worth the price you will be forced to pay, mortal? It is a question which should be given consideration..."_

"A man has not given his soul," Jaqen replied. Whether he spoke to Ildari or Hermaeus, he did not know. "And he does not care for that of the witch. Only the heart which gives her life."

All affectation left her voice and she snarled in reply. "You could have joined me. Shared in the power I possess. But now you will die, just like all the others."

As Jaqen crossed over a bridge and into another large chamber, he realized that he no longer heard her voice through magickal means. Raising his gaze, he met her eyes where she stood on a platform above, a staff in each hand as her red eyes blazed in anger.

"Face me!" she yelled, her voice quavering. "Witness the power I have been given!"

A bolt of lightning cracked from the staff in her right hand and Jaqen only just managed to roll away from it. Landing in a crouch, he armed himself and glanced around the room, his eyes finding a staircase to his left.

As she prepared another spell he cast his own, shimmering out of view. She cursed as he disappeared, her anger blurring the focus of her heart stone and rendering him invisible even to her heightened senses. He ascended the stairs with muffled steps, emerging opposite Ildari.

"Men like you and Neloth," she raged, her eyes frantically scanning the room and finding nothing. "Masters of standard magick. You do not realize what it is you could have! The kind of power you could possess!"

Silently, Jaqen approached her.

"You'll see," she wailed, her anger turning to fear. "You'll all see!"

When Jaqen appeared once again, Ildari let out a strangled gasp, her eyes falling to the dagger at her throat.

"Power means little," he murmured against her ear. "When it is misused." With one smooth motion, his blade cut the leather cord about her neck and she fell limply to his feet. The heart stone that had given her life fell to his open palm, inert once more, nothing more than a chunk of hard volcanic ash.

Hesitating only a moment, he dropped it to the floor and ground it to ash beneath his heel. As he did, the room around him lurched and swayed.

In an instant, Highpoint Tower disappeared and Jaqen fell heavily to his hands and knees. Fighting the sudden throbbing of his skull, he dragged a fist to his wound, now leaking a steady stream of thick, green ooze. A sharp pain flared beneath his touch, but Apocrypha did not fade.

As his breathing grew labored and his vision darkened, a form appeared through the haze of the sky above. He heard laughter, taunting and triumphant. And then, silence.


	14. The Throat of the World (Dany III)

**A/N:** Summer's been crazy between work and my overbearing mother, but here's another chapter at long last. I have two more scheduled weeks of work for this summer and once that's over I'm hoping to use my last couple of weeks to write a bunch and get a good stock piled up for when the semester starts. No guarantees, but I'm really gonna try. Anyway, here you go. Longest chapter to date in the trilogy as it currently exists. As always, many thanks to my beta reader (and sister) **GrowlingPeanut**. Reviews are appreciated.

 **Disclaimer:** Everything belongs to Bethesda Softworks and George R. R. Martin. Specifically, a lot of the...bones, shall we say, of the dialogue in the middle bits is written by the former.

 **Rating:** T for some reference to violence and death, minor language.

* * *

The second journey up the seven thousand steps proved no easier than the first. Despite waking only hours before, Daenerys and Sandor were exhausted by the time they reached the doors of High Hrothgar. Neither was in the mood to endure the mysticism and deflection of the Greybeards, but they had little choice in the matter. So, when the warmth of the temple greeted them, so too did four pairs of eyes.

When they were met with silence, Dany stepped forward, the horn of Jurgen Windcaller in hand. "We have the horn. As you asked."

The resulting stillness was broken after a moment when Arngeir rose to his feet and approached them. "We had hoped to see you sooner. But nonetheless, your training proceeds well, Dragonborn."

He reached out to take the horn, but before he could, Dany shook her head firmly and pulled it back. Arngeir frowned at the movement and Sandor's eyebrow rose in surprise.

"Not yet," Dany said, meeting the disapproval in Arngeir's gaze with steady resistance. "I need to know the Shout that was used to defeat Alduin."

At that, Arngeir's expression shifted swiftly to one of shock and then of anger.

"Where did you learn of that Shout?" he demanded. "Who in the names of the gods have you been talking to?"

Briefly, Dany glanced at Sandor and he gave her an encouraging nod.

"The Blades. They've been helping us since we retrieved the horn."

"The Blades!" Arngeir scoffed with open disdain. "Of course. They specialize in meddling in matters they barely understand and their reckless arrogance knows no bounds. They have always sought to turn the Dragonborn from the path of wisdom." He looked down at Daenerys in disappointment and blatant disgust. "Have you learned nothing from us? Would you simply be a tool in the hands of the Blades, to be used for their own purposes?"

"At least the Blades aren't keeping secrets from me," Dany retorted, unwavering beneath his stony gaze. Perhaps what he said was true, but the same could be said for he and his fellow monks, and she was not keen to be a pawn for either group. Not any longer.

"Do not be so sure about that," Arngeir replied drily. "Beware—the Blades may claim to serve the Dragonborn, but they do not and they never have. As for me, I kept from you only what you were not yet ready to know. Are still not ready to know, as your question reveals." His anger was as steady as her resistance and the air between them was thick with tension.

"So you won't help me then?" Dany challenged, expecting for him to crumble beneath the obstinacy of his precious Dragonborn.

Instead, he shook his head, and he did not miss the disbelief that flashed across her features at the gesture. "No. Not now. Not until you return to the path of wisdom." Dany opened her mouth to protest but a sharp look from Arngeir silenced her. "Your rooms have been prepared for your arrival. Go and do what you will, but do not return to me until you have cleared your mind."

With that, he extended a hand for the horn of Jurgen Windcaller and offered them a level stare which brokered no room for argument. For a moment, Daenerys looked as though she meant to press him, then obeyed without further resistance, handing over the horn and retreating to their chambers. Sandor followed silently, but threw a sneer in Arngeir's direction as he passed to make it clear that he remained on Dany's side in the matter.

When she reached the doorway to her room, Dany's eyes filled with tears of frustration and embarrassment. She turned to meet Sandor's sympathetic gaze, her hands balled into fists at her side. "Is it too much to ask for the truth?" she demanded angrily. "I deserve answers, and I need them if they expect me to be who they want me to be."

Sandor shrugged. "Those old men see you as a child, and little more."

"I am not a child," Dany responded, eyes flashing. "I am Daenerys Targaryen, first of my name, future Queen of High Rock, and the Dovahkiin of Legend. They will answer to me, or this world will burn."

* * *

For five days, they remained in their rooms. While Sandor amused himself with sharpening his sword and imagining it protruding from Ulfric Stormcloak's chest, Dany brooded. She obeyed Arngeir's command and did not return to demand the answers she sought, though each passing day made her anger with the Greybeards fester and burn.

After a day spent fruitlessly attempting to mimic the meditation of the Greybeards, Dany retired to her chambers. She was tired and frustrated, and thus far, nothing she had done had earned her Arngeir's forgiveness.

When sleep took her, she dreamt, and in those dreams it was Alduin who came to her.

 _"If you seek to kill me, child, you will fail. There were others who came before you, long ago. Men, Nords, warriors. They thought they had defeated me, but now I have returned. Where they failed, you will too."_

In slumber, Dany remembered a dream which eluded her by the light of day. The dragon of her house, black and red like her foe, but with three heads, for the last of the Targaryen line. Now, there was only one. She was alone, and what could one young Breton do which the ancient Nord warriors could not? Not even the power she was gaining would be enough, for Alduin was far more powerful, and a true _dov_.

 _The blood red eyes regarded her with their usual arrogance, burning above a grin of deadly teeth. "With each soul that you take from our brothers, you begin to lose your own. Already, your womb has grown cold and barren. Can you feel it? Can you feel the death inside of you?"_

 _Dany thought of her son and Alduin's teeth bared in a wide grin._

 _"Had it lived long enough to truly leave your body, you would have seen the monster that grew inside you. It would have been a twisted creature, its skin covered in scales and its back fused with leathery wings." He saw her tears and continued, red eyes narrow. "Your mortal womb could not sustain it, and now, it will carry nothing else. You are destined to be alone, Dovahkiin. Alone with me, at the end of the world."_

She woke suddenly, disoriented and afraid. Instead of slipping away, Alduin's words remained with her, as did his stare. Shaken, she rose from her bed and stumbled into the hall, her cloak wrapped tightly about her for some measure of warmth and comfort. She had no destination in mind, but knew that she would not sleep again. Not with those eyes watching her.

Lost in her thoughts, she was unaware of her surroundings. Her feet had carried her nearly to the main chamber when the sound of voices reached her ears and she stilled.

 _"Arngeir...rek los Dovahkiin, Strundu'ul. Rek fen tinvaak Paarthurnax_." Although the words were spoken in a language which Daenerys had never learned, she found she could understand them with little effort. "Arngeir, she is Dovahkiin, Stormcrown." It was Master Einarth who spoke. "She will speak with Paarthurnax."

A long moment passed in silence, broken just as Daenerys took a step toward her room.

"Dragonborn...wait."

When she turned, Arngeir was standing at the end of the hallway. "Forgive me. The other day I was...intemperate. I allowed my emotions to cloud my judgment. Master Einarth reminded me of my duty. The decision whether or not to help you is not mine to make."

Although not fully prepared to accept his apology, Dany was far beyond ready to have her questions answered. And so, she approached him. "Can you teach me the Shout that was written on Alduin's Wall?"

Arngeir shook his head and spoke hurriedly as her features hardened in anger. "No. I cannot teach it to you because I do not know it. It is called 'Dragonrend,' but its Words of Power are unknown to us." At Daenerys' disappointed expression, he continued sternly. "In truth, we do not regret this loss. Dragonrend holds no place within the Way of the Voice."

Dany ignored his warning. "If the Shout is lost then how can I defeat Alduin?"

She heard footsteps behind her and glanced over her shoulder to see Sandor approaching. He looked warily at the Greybeards who stood with Dany then settled behind her, lest he be needed.

For a moment, Arngeir hesitated, his untrusting gaze on the sellsword. Finally, he continued, but he looked as though he would rather the Dragonborn alone heard what he had to say. "Only Paarthurnax, the master of our order, can answer that question, if he so chooses."

"I need to speak to Paarthurnax then."

"You weren't ready," Arngeir said defensively in response to her accusatory gaze. When she cocked an eyebrow, he frowned and crossed his arms over his chest. "You still aren't ready. But thanks to the Blades, you now have questions that only Paarthurnax can answer."

Dany refused to soften, and she mirrored the gesture. "And why haven't I already spoken with Paarthurnax?"

"He lives in seclusion on the very peak of the mountain," Arngeir replied. "He speaks to us only rarely, and never to outsiders. Being allowed to see him is a great privilege."

"And is the Dragonborn not worthy of such a privilege?" she countered. When Arngeir refused to rise to the bait, she sighed. "How do I get to the top of the mountain to see him?"

"Only those whose Voice is strong can find the path." He exchanged a glance with Master Einarth and sighed when his companion nodded. "Come. We will teach you the Words to open the way to Paarthurnax."

Turning his back, he led them away, out of the temple and into the courtyard beyond. Silently, the other masters joined them. When they stopped once again, it was around a large fire at the far edge of the courtyard. Arngeir took his place under a stone arch, beyond which lay the path to the top of the mountain. Masters Borri and Wulfgar settled at opposite corners of the fire, facing inward.

Looking through the flames, Arngeir spoke. "The path to Paarthurnax lies through this gate. I will show you how to open the way."

He gestured for Dany to join him and when she stood at his side he turned to face her, his expression drawn in concentration. "Clear your mind, Dragonborn. The way to Paarthurnax is treacherous, and locked to those without the gift of the Voice. I will grant you my understanding of Clear Skies, a Shout to clear your path. This is your final gift from us, Dragonborn. We ask that you use it well."

Placing his hands on her shoulders, he spoke, the whisper rumbling from between his lips. _"Lok...vah...koor!"_

Just as she had learned the other Words which they had taught her, her mind filled with a sudden understanding, the sounds given meaning as Arngeir's knowledge shaped them into a Shout. _Sky, Spring, Summer._

When she opened her eyes, Arngeir stepped out of her way, his expression grim. "The path to Paarthurnax is perilous, and not to be embarked upon lightly. Keep moving, remain focused, and you will reach the summit."

Dany took a step forward and when Sandor followed, the masters left their positions, forming a wall between the crackling fire and the stone arch.

"This is something the Dovahkiin must do alone," Arngeir said sternly. "You do not share our gift, so this path is not yours to tread."

The sellsword looked ready to argue, but Dany met his gaze and shook her head. For once, she agreed with the Greybeards. This was something she had to do alone.

* * *

The path to the top of the mountain was treacherous, as Arngeir had promised. Harsh winds whipped at Daenerys' cloak and she followed the path through eyes wet with tears and with limbs heavy from the cold. When the gusts grew too strong and the snow too thick, her mouth formed the words she had been taught.

As they were carried away on the howling winds, the air about her stilled. For a moment, she could catch her breath and walk with little resistance. Winding higher, the storm returned, and she was forced to slow once more.

By the time she broke through the deluge nearly an hour had passed, and she found herself standing atop a small flat plain, dusted with snow. It was still at the top of the mountain, and quiet, save for a whisper from the wall at its far edge.

Following the familiar pull in her chest, Dany walked toward it, and she was nearly close enough to make out the words upon it when a roar shook the mountain, and a dark shadow fell over her.

An instinct she didn't realize had developed made her pull the bow from across her shoulders, but it wasn't enough to overcome the hammering in her chest and her fingers fumbled with her arrow, dropping it into the snow. She drew another, but by then it was too late.

A massive golden dragon had settled atop the word wall and Dany flinched away in fear as it opened its mouth. Instead of spewing fire or ice from its toothy maw, however, it regarded her with eyes filled with curiosity, and it spoke.

" _Drem Yol Lok._ Greetings, _wunduniik_. I am Paarthurnax." Dany's eyes flew open, comically wide, and she gaped up at the dragon before her as it continued. "Who are you? What brings you to my _strunmah..._ my mountain?"

Stunned, she stepped closer, a tiny figure in the still-falling snow beneath an enormous pair of shimmering, outstretched wings.

" _You're_ the master of the Greybeards?"

The giant head cocked sideways, nodding slowly. "They see me as master. _Wuth. Onik._ Old and wise. It is true I am old..." There was a glimmer of amusement in his eyes, and it only grew when Daenerys continued to stare. "Tell me, why do you come here, _volaan?_ Why do you intrude on my meditation?"

"I..." For a moment, Dany couldn't remember why she was there. Alduin's Wall, Dragonrend...it had all flown from her memory, overshadowed by a shock she couldn't seem to overcome. Slowly, bits and pieces began to return to her and she realized with a start that she could understand Paarthurnax's stilted speech, even before he found the words in the Common Tongue.

Taking a deep breath, she returned her bow to her shoulders and looked up at him. "I am the Dragonborn, and I need to learn Dragonrend to defeat Alduin. Can you teach me?"

He fluttered his wings slightly when she mentioned the Shout and then resettled them as he bent his head down toward her. " _Drem._ Patience. There are formalities which must be observed, at the first meeting of two of the _dov_."

With a sudden movement, he took to the sky once more, only to circle around and land beside her in the snow. His large eye regarded her curiously as he continued. "By long tradition, the elder speaks first: hear my _Thu'um_ , feel it in your bones, and match it, if you are _Dovahkiin._ "

He swiveled his head toward the wall in front of them and roared, a gust of fire spewing from between his sharpened teeth. " _Yol...Toor...Shul!"_

When the flames subsided, his eye rolled back to meet her gaze. "I have spoken. The _Rotmulaag_ awaits."

For a moment, Dany was unsure of what he wanted. Then, she caught sight of a strange glimmer on the stones of the word wall, and she walked toward it. Closing her eyes, she gave herself over to the chanting that rushed to fill her mind. She heard the words that formed his Shout, and when she laid a hand carefully on his scaly snout, she understood them.

 _Fire, Inferno, Sun._

"A gift, _Dovahkiin,_ " Paarthurnax murmured. " _Yol._ Understand Fire as the _dov_ do."

When she opened her eyes and looked at him, there was something akin to pride shining in his golden eyes. "Now, show me that you understand." For a moment, she hesitated, and he shook his head. "Do not be afraid. _Faasnu_. Come, _Dovahkiin_. _Nin yol._ Strike me with the fire of your _Thu'um_. Greet me not as Breton, but as _dovah_."

Nodding, Daenerys obeyed. When she spoke the words, she felt something inside of her stir. The things she had learned from the Greybeards did not possess the raw power of what flowed through her, singing through her veins and erupting from her mouth in a stream of flame.

 _"Yol...Toor...Shul!"_

"Ah...yes!" Paarthurnax praised her, his thin lips pulling back in a grin when she looked down at herself in stunned silence. " _Sossedov los mul._ The Dragonblood runs strong in you. It is long since I had the pleasure of speech with one of my own kind."

With that, he flapped his wings and returned to perch atop the wall, his head swinging down within her reach and turning to regard her with one unblinking eye.

"So..." he drawled. "You have made your way here, to me. No easy task for a _joor..._ mortal. Even for one of _dovah sos_. Dragonblood. What would you ask of me?"

This time, Dany didn't hesitate. "Can you teach me the Dragonrend Shout?"

"Ah..." The sigh that rumbled through him sounded weary. "I have expected you. _Prodah_. You would not come all this way for _tinvaak_ with an old _dovah_. No. You seek your weapon against _Alduin_."

Daenerys frowned slightly and crossed her arms over her chest in an unconsciously petulant gesture. "The Greybeards didn't want me to come at all."

A puff of heat fogged in the cold air as Paarthurnax snorted softly. "Hmm. Yes. They are very protective of me. _Bahlaan fahdonne_. But I do not know the Thu'um you seek. _Krosis._ It cannot be known to me."

Dany felt her heart sinking and she knew that her disappointment showed on her features when the dragon's gaze softened apologetically. "You don't know it?"

Paarthurnax shook his head slowly as he explained. "Your kind... _joorre..._ mortals...created it as a weapon against the _dov..._ the dragons. Our _hadrimme_ , our minds cannot even...comprehend its concepts."

She frowned, willing away the tears of frustration that pricked her eyes. "How can I learn it, then?"

" _Drem,_ " Paarthurnax soothed, swinging his head to gently touch her shoulder. _"_ All in good time. First, I have a question for you. Why do you want to learn this Thu'um?"

"I need to stop Alduin." _Surely he should know that_ , she thought, brow furrowed. After all, she was the Dragonborn, and it was her destiny.

"Yes. _Alduin_... _Zeymah._ The elder brother. Gifted, grasping, and troublesome, as is so often the case with firstborn. But why? Why must you stop _Alduin_?"

Daenerys tried and failed to keep the frustration from her tone. She had thought she would find answers with Paarthurnax, and not more pointless questions. "The prophecy says that only the Dragonborn can stop him."

"True..." Paarthurnax admitted. "But _qostiid_ —prophecy—tells what may be, not what should be. _Qostiid sahlo aak._ Just because you can do a thing, does not always mean you should." He regarded her carefully, his golden gaze searching. "Do you have no better reason for acting than destiny? Are you nothing more than a plaything of _dez..._ of fate?"

For a moment, she was unsure of how to answer. In the end, she decided to tell the truth. "I'm not sure if I believe in destiny. But if no one else will stop Alduin, then I will." It sounded braver than she felt, but she had become resigned to the responsibility that she had been given.

Paarthurnax nodded in reply. "And so, perhaps, your destiny will be fulfilled nonetheless. Who can say? _Dez motmahus._ Even to the _dov_ , who ride the currents of Time, destiny is elusive." He breathed a heavy sigh, fogging the air between them. " _Alduin_ believes that he will prevail, with good reason. _Rok mul._ And he is no fool. _Ni mey, rinik gut nol_. Far from it. He began as the wisest and most far-seeing of us all. But you have indulged my weakness for speech long enough. _Krosis._ Now I will answer your question. Do you know why I live here, at the peak of the _Monahven_ —what you name Throat of the World?"

"I haven't thought about it. Until a few hours ago, I didn't know that you even did."

"This is the most sacred mountain in Skyrim," Paarthurnax replied absently, as though he hadn't heard her. " _Zok revak strunmah._ The great mountain of the world. Here the ancient Tongues, the first mortal masters of the voice, brought _Alduin_ to battle and defeated him."

"Using the Dragonrend Shout?" She remembered the images from Alduin's Wall, of the heroes and Alduin above them.

"Yes and no. _Viik nuz ni kron. Alduin_ was not truly defeated, either. If he was, you would not be here today, seeking to...defeat him. The Nords of those days used the Dragonrend Shout to cripple _Alduin_. But this was not enough. _Ok mulaag unslaad_. It was the _Kel_ —the Elder Scroll. They used it to...cast him adrift on the currents of Time."

"An Elder Scroll? What is that?"

A soft laugh rumbled in the dragon's chest. "Your curiosity is _uznahgaar..._ unending. I have answered many questions today, _mal dovah_ , and you interrupted my meditation." He saw Daenery's frown and his tone softened. "I have grown _wuth..._ old, mortal, and tired. Return to my _strunmah_ on the morrow. Already you shiver and your lips grow blue."

She hadn't noticed it earlier, but when he mentioned it she grew suddenly aware of how cold she was. A shiver ran through her and she nodded, grudgingly. She had waited this long to get her answers, what was another day when they were finally so close?

At her nod Paarthurnax briefly touched his head to her shoulder, and then lifted his wings and disappeared into the clouds once more.

Daenerys descended the mountain slowly, so lost in her own thoughts that she used her Voice almost absently to clear the blowing snow. When she reached the bottom she was shivering nearly uncontrollably and the feeling had gone out of her fingers and toes. The fire beyond the arch was still lit and she limped to it gratefully, standing beside it with her arms outstretched and wincing as her frozen limbs began to thaw.

She was just beginning to wiggle her toes when a figure approached her.

"So, what did the old man have to say for himself? Did he know the Shout?"

Dany's first instinct was to answer, but then she hesitated. Paarthurnax's identity was hidden for a reason; she understood that now. And although she had grown closer to Sandor on their travels, she wasn't sure that he would be as understanding. Whether he had the answers to their questions or not, Paarthurnax was a dragon, in a world that was being threatened by his kind. And that was not a world her companion would want his child to be born in.

When she realized how long her pause had grown, Sandor's gaze was already cold and his expression flat.

"Keeping secrets now is it?"

"You wouldn't understand—"

He snorted. "No, I suppose not. I'm just a mere mortal after all, and not the mighty Dovahkiin."

As her brow furrowed, he shook his head and turned away. "Just call me again when you need my service, Dragonborn. I'll be sitting in High Hrothgar and twiddling my damn thumbs while you conspire with the Greybeards."

Although she didn't want to part on such terms, she was tired and didn't want to fight. In time, she would decide to trust him with her new knowledge, or he would run out of spite. Until then, she would meditate on what she had learned. And when the sun rose, she would return to Paarthurnax.

There was still much to learn.

* * *

"Hmm..." Paarthurnax hummed low in his throat, absently ruffling his wings and shifting his weight atop the wall. "How to explain in your tongue? The _dov_ have words for such things that _joorre_ do not."

They had returned to the matter of the Elder Scroll and Daenerys looked at him expectantly, eager to hear his answer.

"It is...an artifact..." he answered finally. "From outside time. It does not exist, but it has always existed. _Rah wahlaan._ They are...hmm...fragments of creation. The _Kelle..._ Elder Scrolls, as you name them, they have often been used for prophecy." She had barely parted her lips when he nodded. "Yes, your prophecy comes from an Elder Scroll. But this is only a small part of their power. _Zofaas suleyk._ "

"So..." Daenerys frowned, thinking about what she had already been told, and what answers lie between the fragments of knowledge. "Are you saying that the ancient Nords sent Alduin forward in time?"

"Not intentionally. Some hoped he would be gone forever, forever lost. _Meyye_. I knew better. _Tiid bo amativ_. Time flows ever onward. One day he would surface. Which is why I have lived here. For thousands of mortal years I have waited. I knew where he would emerge but not when."

Trying in vain to hide her frustration, she sighed and rubbed a hand across her brow to smooth it. "How does any of this help me? I don't understand."

" _Tiid krent,"_ Paarthurnax drawled thoughtfully. _"_ Time was...shattered here because of what the ancient Nords did to _Alduin_. If you brought that _Kel_ , the Elder Scroll back here...to the _Tiid-Ahraan_ , the Time-Wound...With the Elder Scroll that was used to break Time, you may be able to...cast yourself back. To the other end of the break. You could learn Dragonrend from those who created it."

Daenerys was stunned by the magnitude of what he was suggesting. Mere moons ago, if someone had suggested such a thing...using a...break in Time to see what had happened thousands of years before…she would have laughed. Now, she accepted it, and shifted her focus accordingly.

"Do you know where I can find an Elder Scroll?"

" _Krosis._ No. I know little of what has passed below in the long years I have lived here. You are likely better informed than I."

Dany frowned thoughtfully. There were some who might know, but she had begun to wonder who she was able to trust. "Esbern or Arngeir might have some idea," she mused aloud.

Paarthurnax regarded her with his watchful gaze. "Trust your instincts, _Dovahkiin_. Your blood will show you the way."

She nodded, absentmindedly rubbing the chill from her limbs. "And what should I do with the Elder Scroll when I find it?"

"Return it here, to the _Tiid-Ahraan_ ," Paarthurnax replied. "Then... _Kelle vomindok._ Nothing is certain with such things. But I believe the Scroll's bond to the _Tiid-Ahraan_ will allow you a...a seeing. A vision of the moment of its creation. Then you will feel— _know_ —Dragonrend, in the power of its first expression. You will see them... _wuth fadonne..._ my friends—Hakon, Gormlaith, Felldir."

She detected a hint of sadness in his tone.

"Who are they?"

"The first mortals that I taught the _Thu'um_ —the first Tongues. The leaders of the rebellion against _Alduin_." His gaze was distant. "They were mighty, in their day. Even to _attempt_ to defeat _Alduin_... _sahrot hunne_. The Nords have had many heroes since, but none greater."

"Explain to me," Dany said softly. "How could they do what they did? How could an Elder Scroll cast Alduin through time?"

" _Vomindok_. I do not know. Perhaps in the very doing they erased the knowing of it from Time itself. The _dov_ are children of Akatosh. Thus we are specially…attuned to the flow of Time. Perhaps also uniquely vulnerable. I warned them against such a rash action. Even I could not foresee its consequences. _Nust ni hon_. They would not listen."

"You mean you were there?"

"Yes." He appeared contemplative and Dany wondered if she was the first to make him relive his memories, or if he had spent the last thousand years playing them over and over again. "There were a few of us who rebelled against _Alduin_ 's _thur..._ his tyranny. We aided the humans in his overthrow. But they did not trust us. _Ni ov_. Their inner councils were kept hidden from us. I was far from here on the day of _Alduin_ 's downfall. But all _dov_ felt the...sundering of Time itself."

For a long moment, they lapsed into silence. Paarthurnax's eyes were glazed over and Daenerys took his distraction as an opportunity to look him over. She had never been so close to a dragon, not without it trying to kill her, and she was awestruck by his immense size.

When her gaze reached his face, she saw that his eyes had refocused on her and she flushed. He looked amused when she hastily changed the subject.

"What is it that the Dragonrend Shout does?"

"I cannot tell you in detail," he replied. "I never heard it used. _Kogaan_. It was the first _Thu'um_ created solely by mortals. It was said to force a dragon to experience the concept of Mortality. A truly _vonmindoraan..._ incomprehensible idea to the immortal _dov_."

She nodded as though she understood, but in truth, his answer had only raised more questions. Was it a shout that could defeat Alduin, or merely a shout that would weaken him, and make him vulnerable to arrows and blades? If it were the latter, then she had much to learn. Even weakened, he would be a formidable opponent, and she was not yet a gifted killer.

As though sensing her thoughts, Paarthurnax spoke again. "Return to me each day when the _krein..._ sun rises. I will teach you how to fight against a _dov..._ how to _krii_. Kill. The mortals who call me _in_ are cautious, to a fault, perhaps."

Dany couldn't suppress a quiet snort at his comment. It was easy for the Greybeards to say that fighting was unnecessary, when they lived their life in High Hrothgar. But in the world below their mountain, it was treacherous, and violent. And it needed a warrior to save it.

* * *

As he had commanded, Daenerys returned to Paarthurnax's roost each morning at sunrise. He answered her questions patiently when she asked them, albeit often with amusement, and she began to learn more of who her prophecy called her to be and what was being asked of her as the _Dovahkiin_.

Interspersed with these lessons, he taught her how to fight, not in the ways that Sandor had, but with her Voice, and against his kind.

"You have killed _dov_ before. What did you learn from their deaths?"

Dany frowned. In truth, she had done little to aid during the fights. Once the beasts were killed, she took their knowledge, and in doing so, granted them a death that was eternal, but that would not be enough when she found herself alone against a dragon.

She remembered little from the battle at the Western Watchtower, so lost had she been in the foreign sensation of her emerging gift, but she could remember the other two they had fought and she frowned in concentration.

"There's little we could do when they were in the sky," she began. "Even with my bow, it's difficult to pierce their hide with arrows. The first, _Sahloknir..._ "

She saw a flicker of recognition in Paarthurnax's eyes, but he urged her to continue with a nod of his head.

"I used my Voice against him. I was able to knock him off balance and then Sandor..." She chewed absently on her bottom lip, replaying the fight in Kynesgrove over in her mind. "There was a spot on his belly where the hide was thinner and he drove his sword through and into his heart."

Paarthurnax nodded solemnly and then flew down to rest on the ground beside her, standing on his legs and stretching his wings. "Our scales and hide are our greatest protection," he explained as she ran her fingers lightly over his exposed underside. "But there are places where they are _sahlo..._ weak. This is one. Another is—"

"Your eyes," Dany finished, looking up to meet his gaze as he settled down once more. She remembered the dragon outside of Falkreath. At Sandor's command, she had fired her arrows into its bright blue eyes. In the moment, she had little time to think, but now, as she recalled the way her arrows had pierced through…the way they had mangled its unblinking eye…she fought down the sudden urge to retch.

Paarthurnax nodded. Pride shone briefly in his gaze, but still he remained solemn. As _Dovahkiin_ , Daenerys needed to know the things he had to teach her, but he found no pleasure in instructing her how to kill his brethren.

"Can you fight with a _tuz..._ blade, _mal dovah_?"

She nodded, though it was hesitant. Reaching down, she pulled the dagger from about her waist. "I am not a skillful fighter, but not completely ignorant, either. Sandor has taught me a little, and I have fought with it before."

" _Pruzah_. Listen to me carefully, _Dovahkiin_. When _joorre_ fight the _dov_ with their blades, they are often killed. Torn apart by teeth or claw, or rent by our Voice." He crawled to the opposite end of the clearing and then turned once more to face her.

"I will teach you to survive, but you must be _krill..._ brave, _Dovahkiin_ , and _nos..._ strike swiftly."

For a moment, he sat with his head cocked, and then he began to speak. He used the Dragon Tongue, untouched by the language of mortals and she heard the words in her mind.

When he lunged toward her, she heeded the echo of his words. Breaking into a run, she met him halfway across the clearing, leaping forward as he snapped at her and grasping at one of the jagged horns atop his head. For a moment, she floundered, struggling to find purchase against his scaly hide as her feet kicked uselessly against his side. Then, with a cry of exertion, she pulled herself upward, her feet bracing against the base of his wing. She found herself crouched atop his head, dagger in hand and poised to strike the golden eye that met her gaze.

Her heart hammering in her chest, she slowly withdrew the blade and sat back heavily. She could clearly remember the actions she had taken, but as she took them, there was nothing in her mind but instinct and the whisper of Paarthurnax's voice.

"I..."

A soft laugh rumbled in the dragon's chest and he gently tipped his head forward to let her back onto the ground. "You have _mulaag..._ strength, you do not realize, _Dovahkiin._ Your _zul_ is the greatest of your gifts, but alone, it will not be enough. Think on what I have taught you. Meditate." He met her look of bewilderment with a gentle gaze. "Realize your _mulaag_ , _mal dovah._ Only if you do this can you truly be the _hun..._ hero, of your prophecy."

* * *

What time Dany didn't spend with Paarthurnax, she spent meditating, as he had asked of her. Day by day passed as such, fading into a blur. Sandor and the Greybeards kept their distance, wary of the young woman for their own reasons. Three weeks had passed before the sellsword finally overcame his pride and he found Daenerys sitting alone in the courtyard, seemingly unfazed by the cold.

When his shadow fell over her she remained still with her eyes closed and they didn't snap open until he pointedly cleared his throat. She met his stare evenly, unwilling to apologize for her choice, and finally, he spoke.

"He has the answers you were looking for, doesn't he?" When she didn't respond, he shuffled his boots in the snow and nodded to himself. "You seem...different."

At that, Dany nodded slowly. She certainly felt different. Paarthurnax was helping her to discover what strength flowed through her veins and under his tutelage, she was finally beginning to realize it. She felt confident and powerful.

"Well, while you've been spending your time high above us mortals in the temple, a package arrived for you." The words were bitter, but his tone was weary and almost...cautious.

He dropped a burlap sack into the snow beside her and it rattled as it settled at her feet. "It's from Whiterun," he offered by way of explanation. "The couple at the Warmaiden. They took the scales I gave them and sent a pair of boots and gauntlets. I looked them over when they arrived and I can tell you it's the finest damn armor I've ever seen."

Only vaguely listening to what he was saying, Dany opened the sack and withdrew the pieces of armor. They were small and surprisingly light, crafted to fit her slight frame, and to keep from slowing her down. Wordlessly, she removed her riding boots and replaced them with the armored ones. They fit snugly and rose to her knees, offering warmth and protection alike.

"Wouldn't mind a pair of those myself," Sandor muttered quietly, watching as she slipped on the gauntlets.

When she met his gaze, she saw something strange in his eyes, something that looked almost like sadness, or perhaps, resignation. She thought that, though he didn't know what transpired at the Throat of the World, he understood that his time as her protector was swiftly coming to an end.

"Sandor..." Her voice was quiet, apologetic, and he shook his head.

"Don't," he said gruffly. "It might not be time for us to part ways yet, but we live in different worlds now, Dany. You're the Dragonborn, and I'm just a man who's supposed to be dead. I won't ask for more."

It was the closest he would get to an apology and she accepted it. When she stayed silent, he turned away and it was as his boots hit the stone near the temple's doors that she heard him falter.

"Just...one thing." He turned to meet her eyes. "Can you do it, Dany? Save us?"

When she nodded, it was without hesitation. It wasn't a prophecy that told her so, nor Paarthurnax in his infinite wisdom. It was something inside of her. Something that was awakening, and that had the power to be _Dovahkiin._

"Yes."

And by the gods, she had begun to believe it.

* * *

"Paarthurnax..."

There was one thing she had yet to ask of him. A question that she was afraid to hear the answer to.

He raised his head, breaking from his meditation, and cocked it slightly.

"I..." She thought of that night, only days shy of a moon ago. Of the eyes that watched her while she slept. "Alduin came to me," she said haltingly. "In a dream. He spoke of my son."

Paarthurnax stayed silent, watching her with his golden eyes.

"He said that with every soul I take, I lose more of my own. Is that true?"

The dragon spoke slowly. "The last Dragonborn before you was Martin Septim. He was from the lineage of Akatosh, but was not _Dovahkiin_ , as you are. When he shattered the Amulet of Kings to defeat Mehrunes Dagon, he unleashed a power that he was unable to control. He became one of us, an avatar of Akatosh so that the power would not destroy him, and he remained and died as such because his mortal form was too _sahlo_." He was silent for a moment. "You, child, have the _dovah sos_ in your veins and not simply in your past. With every soul that you take from my brothers, the powers inside of you emerge. They have been dormant since your birth, waiting for our time to come again, waiting for the prophecy to begin. You are not losing your soul, as _Alduin_ claims. You are becoming what you were meant to be."

"What does that mean?" Daenerys whispered. "This power has already killed my only child. What will it do to me?"

Paarthurnax's gaze was gentle. "It will not destroy you, as it did to Martin Septim. Your blood was made to bear it. You will not wake with wings, or claws. But you may begin to see as you never could, or to endure even the greatest cold. These are gifts, from our father, bestowed upon the mortal world through what the masters below have unjustly named 'Words of Power'."

"Do not worry, _Dovahkiin_ ," he soothed her. " _Alduin_ speaks in _faas..._ fear. You are becoming who the _qostiid_ declares you to be, and in that, he sees his end."

* * *

Despite Paarthurnax's words, when she fell into a deep sleep and was met with Alduin's fiery gaze, it was she who felt afraid.

 _"Paarthurnax…my brother. He tells you lies, Dovahkiin. You can feel the change within yourself, and though he tells you it is a gift, awakening, it is a curse and it will destroy you."_

 _When she did not rise to his taunts, he continued, teeth bared in a snarl. "Do you know what it means, Dovahkiin? Paar thur nax. Ambition. Overlord. Cruelty. Did he tell you of the last joorre who trusted him? Of Hakon, Gormlaith, and Felldir? Did he tell you how they died knowing I had not truly been defeated, just as you will?"_

 _"You are weak, Dovahkiin," he growled. "You will fall, and when I fulfill my destiny as World Eater, you and your world will burn."_

When Dany woke, her fear faded to determination and she rose from her bed. Arngeir was in the temple's main chamber when she found him.

"Where can I find an Elder Scroll?"

He met her gaze with thinly veiled distaste. "Is that what Paarthurnax told you to do? To learn this Shout? Such blasphemies are the calling of mages, not followers of the Way. Take your question to the College of Winterhold. They may help you in this foolish quest."

"You will tell me," Dany replied, her eyes blazing fiercely. "For I am the Dragonborn, and your master has placed his faith in me."

For a moment, Arngeir met her gaze evenly. Then, it fell. His eyes were filled with disgust and regret. "I have heard that it may be in a place called Blackreach, beneath the Dwemer ruin of Mzinchaleft. But I hope it is lost, to you and any others who might seek it."

Dany looked at him through narrowed eyes. "Do you want me to fail? Would you watch the world burn?"

"This Shout was used once before, was it not?" Arngeir replied coldly. "And yet, here we are again. Have you considered that Alduin was not meant to be defeated? Those who overthrew him in ancient times only postponed the day of reckoning, they did not stop it. If the world is meant to end, so be it." His gaze was harsh and unapologetic. "Let it end and be reborn."

* * *

Dany found Sandor in his chambers, a book in hand and bored disinterest in his eyes.

"We're going," she said, appearing in the doorway.

He cocked his eyebrow and lowered the book. "Going where?"

"Mzinchaleft."

His brow furrowed in confusion but he shrugged and tossed the book aside. "Have you told Paarthurnax we're leaving?"

Dany shook her head as he pulled on his boots and set about gathering his things. "He'll know."

Sandor cast her a glance at that then shrugged again and sighed. "And what is it that's in...whatever you said?"

"An answer."

"What's the question?" He slung his things over his shoulder and gestured for her to leave, walking at her side as they made their out of the temple.

"Where we can find an Elder Scroll."

"And we need one because...?"

Dany stepped through the door as he opened it and breathed deeply in the harsh winter air.

"We're going to find a prophecy," she answered. "And we're going to fulfill it."


	15. The Burning of King Olaf (Sansa III)

**A/N:** Heya. Because it's what always seems to happen, I was only able to conquer my lack of inspiration for this chapter when I had a paper to write for class, so...yeah. We'll see how that turns out. Either way, here's a chapter. My boyfriend and I made new ESO characters to play through the DLC together and I opted for Valgeir since he's my second most frequently occurring OC in this story and whoops I love him so much more now so...get used to him being around for a while. Anyway, as always, many thanks to my beta reader (and sister) **GrowlingPeanut**. Reviews are appreciated.

 **Disclaimer:** Everything belongs to Bethesda Softworks and George R. R. Martin. Specifically, the terribly rhymed monstrosity that is the Ballad of King Olaf is the property of the former.

 **Rating:** M for physical and emotional abuse and general mentions of violence/death.

* * *

 _"O, Olaf, our subjugator, the one-eyed betrayer; death-dealing demon and dragon-killing King.  
Your legend is lies, lurid and false; your cunning capture of Numinex, a con for the ages.  
No shouting match between dragon and man, no fire or fury did this battle entail."_

The next segment was smudged beyond recognition and Sansa sighed, dropping her fingers from her lute and picking up a piece of charcoal.

Giraud had given her free rein to fill in the missing pieces of the verse, and she was unsure of what direction to take. She could stick to what she knew of the history, or sensationalize it for the entertainment of the revelers. Or, she could emphasize the treachery of the ancient king. After all, she knew her audience and despite the irony, that would appeal to Ulfric's view of himself.

 _Olaf struck a deal to make himself king, Numinex let go though none tell that tale._

Though somewhat convoluted, the verse fit the existing rhyme and so it would do. Adding it to the fresh sheet of parchment beside her, she tested it experimentally with the others as she strummed one of several tunes she was considering. Thus far, she was unhappy with all of them, and her distracted mind was not of any help in the matter.

Two days before, Arya had inexplicably disappeared, and Sansa couldn't help but be worried about her. Neither Ralof nor Valgeir had been able—or perhaps, willing—to give her details about her sister's sudden departure. Selfishly, she was also worried for her own sake. Although Arya had never spoken directly against Ulfric, Sansa felt safer knowing that she was near, lest his temper worsened and he decided to hurt her beyond the usual bruises.

Sighing again, she abandoned the verse and left her chambers. Perhaps walking through the market would help to clear her mind. Though she couldn't partake in the traditional Nordic festivities of New Life, she could enjoy the vendors and their exotic treats.

And perhaps she could stop into the Temple of the Divines. She didn't have the power to help Arya, wherever she may be, but the Gods did, and she could do her part and pray. It seemed that was about all she could do, for those she loved, and for herself.

The sun shone bright through the clouds, warming the streets of Solitude, and so Sansa left the palace without her cloak. As she walked to the market, people bowed and curtseyed as she passed and she returned every gesture with a smile. She felt uncomfortable as the object of the commoners' respect and admiration, but she knew it was something she must bear along with the crown, and so she responded as gently as she could.

When she arrived at the circle of stalls, she hesitated for a moment. She could spend her coin on produce from Jala and bring it back to the kitchens, or buy one of the sweets that Evette San had added to complement her spiced wine for the festival.

In the end, the grumbling of her stomach decided for her and she walked up to Evette's stand with a timid smile. The older woman returned it. "Good morning, your grace. Here to try a bottle of my spiced wine? It's a family recipe..."

Sansa shook her head. "No thank you. Not with..." She trailed off and rubbed a hand across the growing bump at her waist and Evette nodded her apology.

"Of course, your grace. Perhaps a jazbay crostata or an apple dumpling then?"

"Umm..." Sansa pretended to look over them before her eyes settled on a plate of freshly baked lemon cakes. "I think I would like a few of your lemon cakes, my lady."

Evette laughed, but moved several onto a small platter for Sansa to take. "'My lady'? You're the only lady here, Lady Stormcloak. I'm just the daughter of a gambler. Thank the Divines Irnskar forgave my father's debts or I would have been another beggar in the streets. When he has too much to drink he tells tales about the man who he claims saved his life. Some big fellow with bu—"

Sansa's attention was pulled away as she caught sight of two older women beside the stall, both eyeing her critically. She flushed self-consciously beneath their scrutiny, but then one of them caught her gaze and dropped into a low curtsey.

"Apologies, your grace," she stammered in obvious embarrassment. "We meant you no harm, we were only just speculating on whether it's a prince or princess that you're carrying."

Sansa's expression shifted to one of surprised delight and the other woman frowned deeply.

"It's like I told you, Fridrika. The queen's just bought a plate of lemon cakes. If she has a craving for sweets, we have a princess on the way."

Her smile widening, Sansa laughed. "Is that true?" She looked back at Evette San who shrugged, but couldn't help but smile at the young queen's sudden excitement.

"Of course it is, your grace," the second woman continued. "It was true for me when I had my daughter, and for my mother before me and her mother before her. It's as sure a sign as if the Divines spelled it out in the stars for you."

Although Sansa didn't know if the woman spoke true, she couldn't contain the burst of pride and delight that rose in her chest. _A girl_ , she mused wonderingly. She would have the Tully coloring, but her father's eyes. That was the image that formed in her mind, for that would be the safest outcome. Ulfric had been friends with Eddard Stark, and would recognize the grey eyes of the Starks should they pass to the child he believed to be his own. It was fortuitous indeed that the Western-bred Cleganes had had northern ancestors.

"But, Alexia," Fridrika replied. "Look at her." When Sansa raised her eyebrows, she blushed slightly. "Forgive me for saying so, your grace, but..." She looked back toward her companion. "She looks weary. If t'were a girl, she'd have that glow about her. You know that to be true."

If Sansa looked as weary to others as she felt, she knew that was due to living a life of pain and deception, and not because of what her child might be. That, however, was something she had to keep to herself.

"Prince or princess," she said to mediate the argument. "I'm eager to meet it when the time comes, and it will grow to be a kind and just ruler for Skyrim and her people."

Although she wished nothing of the sort for her child's future, the false sentiment was something that the two women could both agree on. Murmuring their agreement, they offered shallow curtseys of farewell before leaving Sansa alone with the merchant once more.

After a moment, Evette cleared her throat pointedly and Sansa flushed, reaching for the pouch at her waist. After withdrawing a ten septim coin, she handed it over and then removed the piece of folded parchment tucked amongst her coins.

"Excuse me." She raised her voice to be heard over the bustle of the market and the cries from the river and those at the stalls turned toward her with eyebrows raised. She colored slightly beneath their scrutiny and smiled nervously before pulling her lute from her shoulders.

"I would ask you not to spoil the surprise for King Ulfric, but...I am restoring King Olaf's verse in preparation for the revival of the Burning of King Olaf, and I thought...perhaps you could be of assistance."

Those gathered exchanged glances and murmurs before a round of nods answered her plea.

Relieved, she nodded in return and then began to play, choosing the tune she liked the most and beginning to sing.

 _"O, Olaf, our subjugator, the one-eyed betrayer; death-dealing demon and dragon-killing King.  
Your legend is lies, lurid and false; your cunning capture of Numinex, a con for the ages.  
No shouting match between dragon and man, no fire or fury did this battle entail.  
Olaf struck a deal to make himself king, Numinex let go though none tell that tale._

 _"Olaf grabbed power, by promise and threat;  
From Falkreath to Winterhold, they fell to their knees;  
But Solitude stood strong, Skyrim's truest protectors.  
Olaf's vengeance was instant, inspired and wicked."_

When she reached the end of what was written, she paused and spoke again. "The next section of the verse that was recovered has been destroyed, and there are a few lines I've been considering."

Clearing her throat, she sang in answer to the eager silence that fell over them.

 _"Olaf gave orders, Winterhold disguises.  
An attack on Solitude total destruction to follow.  
His men dressed up and went out to fight,  
But they reversed Olaf's orders much to Winterhold's sorrow."_

"Or perhaps..." She strummed the same chord and began again.

 _"Because Solitude would not soon bend knee, Olaf would hurt them while his status accrued.  
He sacked Winterhold his only true ally, and used magic bold to blame Solitude."_

When she was finished, she put aside her lute and wrapped her arms self-consciously about her waist, meeting the stares of those before her.

"I think that our king may prefer the first, but there's a certain excitement to the second isn't there?"

There were murmurs of agreement before a voice spoke up from behind her and she turned to see Ralof leaned against one of the stalls.

"If you think King Ulfric would prefer the first, I would choose that. His pleasure is paramount to mere sensationalism after all."

At the appearance of Ulfric's Thane, the crowd hastily returned to their bartering and Ralof strode to Sansa's side with a sigh.

"Personally, I prefer the second, but it never hurts to curry favor with the king."

Sansa nodded, her mood darkening at the implication of his words. He noticed the change and gave her an apologetic smile before turning to leave the market. Before he could go, she called after him.

"Ralof...do you know where she is? You don't have to tell me, but..." She trailed off and he sighed again.

"I don't," he answered, and that was the truth. "And I don't know when she might be back. But I do know that she's a strong woman and that she can take care of herself. She'll be back, my lady. I promise you that." Until then, he would continue to watch over Sansa, as he had promised, though it pained him to admit that Arya's assessment of what he would witness had proved true.

Sansa nodded in reply, but his assurances couldn't soothe the worry that gnawed insistently in her chest. She had thought Arya was lost to her once before, and didn't know if she could bear to lose her again. She was very nearly the only family she had left.

Until Arya returned, Sansa would occupy her time with Solitude's people, with the task she had been given, and with her daydreaming about her and Sandor's child. Someday, things might be different, but that day had yet to come.

* * *

Since the coronation, Ulfric had begun to spend more nights in her chambers than in his own, and even on the nights when he left her unmolested, she had to endure the sound of his snores and the weight of his arm on her waist. She did not, however, fight him, or his desires. She had yet to broach the subject of the festival of King Olaf, and she wished to be in his good graces.

It was on a night just shy of a week later, when she felt as though she was nearly finished with the verse, that she decided to try her luck. When the sun set, Ulfric found her finishing her bath and with effort she continued to hum the tune she had finally settled on for the verse. He watched her in silence as she dried the water from her skin and brushed out her hair.

When she had finished she moved to the bed, noting idly that her husband seemed pleased by her continued acquiescence. It made her feel sick and ashamed to accept him without resistance, but she felt that she had no other choice. Though he was not gentle with her, he did not hurt her more than was necessary and she was able to retain her composure without being forced to keep tears from her eyes.

Once he had finished with her, she waited in silence, and it was as he was pouring a glass of wine that she decided to speak.

"Ulfric..."

He looked toward her with raised eyebrows. It was rare that she called him anything but a coldly courteous "my lord," and his surprise was apparent.

"Yes, my love?"

"I went to the Bard's College the other day," she began, absently tracing the swell of her waist.

"Visiting old friends?" There was something almost akin to suspicion in his tone, and she marveled at how quick he was to assume that she might slip out from his influence. As if he didn't think she knew that he had her constantly watched by the men loyal to him.

"Something like that," she deflected. "While I was there, I spoke with one of my former instructors, Giraud Gemane."

"And what did he have to say?" Ulfric refilled his goblet and then settled back against the intricate headboard.

"He told me that the College had recovered an ancient verse that had long been thought lost. The Ballad of King Olaf. Do you know it?"

She didn't expect him to, but he nodded. "The lost verse, no, but the tale, yes. King Olaf One-Eye and Numinex the dragon, aye?"

Sansa's heart faltered as he slipped unconsciously into the informal brogue of his youth, before he was a hero and a king. It was the way that Sandor had spoken, casting aside the lordly lessons of his childhood, and it hurt to hear it from her husband's lips. When he cocked an eyebrow, she regained her composure and nodded. "Yes. The verse is a tale from Svaknir the Bard. It condemns Olaf as a false and treacherous king, and as such it was destroyed during his reign and thought to be gone forever."

"Until now?"

"Yes. Although it was damaged when they found it. Some parts are missing: burned away or just faded over time. Giraud has asked me to restore it and to put it to a tune."

Ulfric frowned slightly and set aside his goblet. "I'm sure you're grateful for the task, particularly in light of your sister's continued absence, but...to what end did Gemane ask it of you?"

"Well..." Sansa hesitated, thrown momentarily from her thoughts by the mention of Arya. She hadn't thought that he would notice she was gone.

When his eyebrows rose, she continued hastily. "There used to be a festival. The Burning of King Olaf. It was forgotten, or outlawed. I don't know which."

"Outlawed," Ulfric answered, his frown deepening. "By Elisif. After I killed Torygg, she thought that a festival to celebrate the burning of a king was in...poor taste. It hasn't been held since before the war."

Sansa agreed with the former queen's sentiment, but she kept her thoughts to herself. Marrying a woman after executing her lover was in equally poor taste and yet, Ulfric had not hesitated.

"Well," she continued. "Giraud and I thought that you could bring back the festival. I am nearly finished restoring the verse, and the New Life festival is nearing its end. When Morning Star turns to Sun's Dawn we can begin the Festival of King Olaf, and perhaps hold the burning after a fortnight. It will be a continuation of the festivities, and a fitting condemnation of false kings."

There was genuine surprise in her husband's gaze when she met his eyes and when he spoke he sounded pleased. "I think it's a splendid idea, love. I'm honored that you've given it so much consideration."

"It was nothing, my lord," Sansa demurred, retreating back to formalities in fear of the affection she saw in his regard.

Thankfully, when he bent toward her, it was to place a kiss at her temple, and no more.

"I knew I chose wisely," he murmured, setting aside his goblet and lying beside her. "You are blossoming, my love, and becoming the perfect queen to rule Skyrim at my side." His hand moved to her stomach and she summoned every bit of her self-control to keep from flinching away. "Someday, you'll look back and realize everything that I've done for you." Ulfric's tone was smug and self-assured and Sansa closed her eyes as they welled with tears. "When that day comes, you'll thank me. That I promise you."

* * *

Unable to sleep with Ulfric beside her, Sansa tossed and turned, finally rising from the bed and quietly slipping from the room. The moons were still high and so if she was fortunate she could take a walk and return before he ever realized she had left.

With her mind occupied, she drifted down the hallway, a thick cloak wrapped around her nightshift, and she was startled out of her reverie when a figure appeared at the other end of the hall.

"Arya!"

Broken from her thoughts, Arya's head jerked up, gaze wary and distrustful, and she only relaxed slightly when she saw her sister approaching.

"Where have you been?" Sansa rushed across the hallway with her arms outstretched and Arya fell wearily into her embrace, ignoring the responding flare of pain from her shoulder. "I've been worried sick about you!"

"I'm alright, Sansa," Arya replied, pulling back. "I just...I..."

She hesitated and Sansa was frightened by what she saw in her sister's gaze. Behind the exhaustion, there was guilt in her eyes, and pain.

"Let's go to the roof. I have something I want to tell you."

Silently, Sansa nodded and helped her sister up the stairs to the palace battlements, afraid of the way she was acting and the winces that punctuated each lurching step.

With sunrise still hours away, the guards had yet to take up their posts, and they found themselves alone among the towering stone structures.

For a long moment, Arya stared up at the moons, her hair blowing gently in the breeze and catching in the moisture on her cheeks. Finally, she spoke. "You deserve to know."

Swinging her pack from her shoulder, she rummaged around in it for a moment before withdrawing a piece of crumpled and faded parchment. The charcoal sketch on its surface had been smudged and blurred with tears, but it was still visible and the sight of it caught Sansa's breath in her throat.

"I never wanted to tell you," Arya began shakily. "Because I didn't want you to think that I was trying to say I knew what you had endured. Gods know we've both lived through our own hells since Father was killed, but...I'll never know the pain you've felt at his hands."

"And yet...?" Sansa urged softly. She had no desire to dwell on Ulfric's abuse, and had a sickening feeling that Arya had endured different but equal horrors of her own.

"And yet." Arya sighed heavily, her eyes swimming with tears. "There was a man. His name was Vilkas and I…I loved him. More than I ever knew I could. And…" She looked back up toward the stars, where the Lover was making her steady journey across the sky. When she continued, her tone was flat but her voice wavered unsteadily. "He was killed."

Sansa blinked to keep her own tears at bay and took Arya's hand in her own. "How?"

At that, Arya laughed, but it was a bitter and humorless sound. "By the Imperial Legion. Because the men who fought under Tywin Lannister were cruel and brutal, even to those who did not deserve it."

She looked back at the sketch of her dead lover, the fingers of her free hand absently smoothing across the line of his cheek. "Sometimes I envy you," she admitted quietly. When Sansa stiffened, she continued hastily. "The babe, I mean. I've never wanted to be a mother, or thought that I would make a good one, but...all I have to remember him by is a fading picture and a ring I never accepted. Even after his death, you still carry a part of the Hound inside you."

"Sandor," Sansa corrected sharply. "His name was Sandor."

Arya nodded in acceptance and squeezed her sister's hand by way of apology. After a moment, she spoke once more.

"After he was killed, I was...lost for a time. I suppose in many ways I still am. But I was far luckier than you. I..." A blush rose to her cheeks, warring with the haunted expression that remained in her eyes. "I met someone else. His name is Jaqen H'ghar and despite my best intentions I fell in love with him."

Sansa smiled at the helpless shrug of her shoulders and Arya returned it weakly.

"Where is he?" Sansa asked gently.

At that, the smile disappeared. "I don't know," Arya replied. "He was called away to business on Solstheim, but...it's been nearly a full turn of the moons and I haven't heard any word. I'm frightened, Sansa. I can't lose him too."

"You won't," Sansa said, her tone one of assured confidence. "He's alive. If he wasn't, you would know." Some nights when she dreamed of Sandor, she woke believing that he was still alive. For a moment, she could almost _feel_ it. But then she remembered being forced to witness his execution and that image banished any foolish feelings that remained.

Arya nodded but couldn't hold back her tears regardless. The silence that followed was broken only by the sound of her stifled sobs.

"So where did you go?" Sansa asked finally. "And what happened to you?"

Arya regained her composure somewhat and spoke through each shaky breath. "Even after Solitude, there was still a branch of the Legion that remained. The Silver Hand. They were the ones who killed Vilkas. And I...I killed them, Sansa. Every last one of them. I tore them apart just like they did to him." Sansa's expression belied her instinctual horror and Arya tore her gaze away. "I had to. It was the least I could do. If I had only said I would marry him he never would have—"

Before she could finish the thought, Sansa interrupted. "No. His death was not your fault, Arya. No more than Sandor's was mine."

The look in Arya's eyes suggested that she was not convinced, and they welled with tears once more. Unsure of how to comfort her, Sansa said nothing else. She believed there was much more that had happened in Arya's life after their father's execution—was convinced of it by her haunted expression—but her remaining questions would go unasked. There were things which Arya would never tell her— _could_ never, just as Sansa could never bear to speak the truth of what occurred behind the heavy oak door of her chambers.

When she finally spoke again, Arya sounded defeated. "How do you still pray to the Divines? How can you still believe in them?"

The confusion on Sansa's face was immediate, and genuine. "How can I not?" she answered. "After Robb's execution, I thought I was alone, but then you were here, when for so long I had thought you dead. And after Sandor was killed and Ulfric forced me to marry him, I didn't want to live any longer. I nearly succeeded in killing myself, but then I was told I was carrying Sandor's child and I realized that was a life worth saving, even if mine was not. You said yourself," she continued. "You were fortunate to fall in love again. Do you think it was a coincidence that you and Jaqen crossed paths after Vilkas' death?"

Arya frowned. Jaqen had called that path her destiny. But destiny, Fate, the gods...where did one end and the others begin?

Sansa watched Arya's expression momentarily shift before hardening once more. She understood the temptation to lose faith in the gods, but she hoped that Arya would not let it continue to fuel her anger. If she did, no good could come of it.

The stillness around them was broken by the sound of approaching boots and Sansa looked toward the sound in alarm. If it was one of the many guards who was still unfailingly loyal to Ulfric, he would hear that she and Arya had been discovered away from prying eyes, and his suspicions would be raised along with his fists.

Arya's gaze shifted in tandem and her features swiftly relaxed into a smile.

"You look half-dead, Snow-Hammer. Who saved your life this time, since I wasn't there to do it?"

"Someone far braver and better looking than you," Arya quipped, earning a chuckle as Valgeir came to stand beside them.

Sansa smiled at their rapport, but it was weak, for she felt suddenly as though she was intruding. Her sister had managed to achieve a camaraderie with her fellow soldiers that Sansa had not known since her days at King's Landing. Briefly, she wondered how Shae and Dancy had recovered from the fire. She supposed that she could find out, but there could be no reunion between them. By no stretch of the imagination would the queen be allowed to count whores amongst her friends.

Clearing her throat, she offered them a slight curtsey. "I should go." She squeezed Arya's hand and then let it drop. "I'm glad you've returned safely."

Arya nodded in reply and let her go as Valgeir bowed at the waist and dismissed her with a quiet, "Your grace."

Retreating, Sansa moved toward the stairs that would return her to the palace. When she reached them, she glanced over her shoulder to see Arya and Valgeir standing close together, deep in conversation. Whatever they were conspiring, she could not imagine that Ulfric would be happy to know two of his closest guards were keeping secrets.

She only hoped that Arya could keep herself safe. If Ulfric began to suspect her, she would join the ranks of the other Starks who had died by his hand. He would call it justice, but Sansa knew all too well that there was plenty to fear from the king's idea of justice. In the end, all it could bring was pain.

* * *

By the time the New Life festival ended and Sun's Dawn began, Sansa had her preparations finished for the Burning of King Olaf. They let a night pass without festivities so that they could move the decorations and stalls that they would be using and then when the sun began to set on the second of Sun's Dawn, the new festival began.

For just shy of a fortnight, the Bard's College opened its doors, allowing curious townspeople to try their hand at various instruments and learn its history. Its courtyard was filled with stalls offering sweets and mulled wines and Sansa busied herself about the College while they prepared for the Burning on the festival's final night.

At last, the night arrived and the streets bustled with activity as excitement grew. As the sun began to set, a crowd gathered in the courtyard of the Bard's College, eagerly awaiting the festival's climactic event.

Sansa stood beside Viarmo, the headmaster of the Bard's College, and Giraud Gemane, looking out at the crowd before them. The courtyard was packed full with people and she recognized many of the faces that gazed up at the effigy of King Olaf.

Taarie and Endarie stood at one edge, visibly assessing the outfits of those gathered and trying to gauge the reactions to the gown which they had made for Sansa. At the other side of the courtyard Arya stood beside Ralof and Valgeir, with Ulfric to their right. And weaving between them all, Evette San and Jala walked about, selling their wine and homemade sweets.

When a momentary lull brought a hush over the courtyard, Viarmo raised his hands and the last murmurs fell silent as he began to speak.

"Welcome, people of Solitude. We of the Bard's College are pleased to be here with you, to celebrate the Burning of King Olaf."

When the answering applause died down he made a gesture toward Sansa and continued. "The festival would not have been possible without the dedication and hard work of our former student, Queen Sansa."

Again, the crowd met his statement with applause and Sansa flushed beneath the attention, catching Arya's smile and returning it timidly. Viarmo looked pleased by the response of the gathered guests and he took a step toward the effigy, raising the torch that burned in his grasp.

"With the lighting of the effigy, remember all the men and women who gave their lives to bring the Stormcloaks to victory." Although the Bard's College held no love for the king's army or his war, Sansa had urged them to speak in their favor so they would not needlessly incur Ulfric's wrath.

The straw effigy caught flame and the night sky lit up with a warm, red haze as Viarmo made his closing statement. "We burn King Olaf for his treachery, that we might realize our fortune as our new King and Queen bring Skyrim to peace and prosperity."

The resulting applause was near deafening in its enthusiasm and Viarmo and Giraud exchanged a look of satisfaction.

As the effigy burned and the crowd stuffed themselves with the offered treats, Sansa played the newly restored ballad on her lute. When she sang the final verse, her audience cheered.

 _"So ends the story of Olaf the liar,  
A thief and a scoundrel we of Solitude commit to the fire.  
In Solitude bards train for their service,  
They also gather each year and burn a King who deserves it."_

When the song was finished, people began to converge on the effigy, warming themselves in the glow of its rising flames.

Pushing through the crowd, Sansa maneuvered her way through to the edge of the courtyard and when she felt a hand at her elbow she turned to see Arya at her side. Her sister looked cautiously about, her eyes lighting on Ulfric and finding him in deep conversation with Ralof. Relaxing slightly, she took Sansa's hand and led her away with a whisper. "Come with me."

"Arya...where are we going?" Sansa glanced nervously over her shoulder but Arya shook her head and lifted a finger to her lips.

"You'll see."

Arya led Sansa to her chambers in Castle Dour, a giddy and conspiratorial smile stretching across her features as she opened the door.

Sansa opened her mouth to question her sister once more, but her words caught in her throat as she gasped in surprise.

With a wide grin, Arya shut the door behind her and Valgeir stood from his place in the corner to join her, crossing his arms over his chest as Sansa drifted across the room.

In the center, situated before the fireplace, was a cradle wrought from dark, polished wood. Across its beams, carved wolves and dogs pranced about, offering their protection to the babe that would sleep within. With tears in her eyes, Sansa looked back at her sister and the man beside her.

"Is this what you were conspiring about in the middle of the night?" she asked, to which Arya responded with a smile and a nod.

"I wanted it to be a secret, and I needed Valgeir's help."

Sansa nodded in return, but there was a hint of fear in her gaze and Arya was quick to soothe her worries.

"You can trust him. Your secret is safe, I promise."

Nodding, Sansa turned back to the cradle, running her hands across its smoothly finished wood. The wolves of House Stark and dogs of House Clegane seemed to come alive in the light from the flames and Sansa couldn't help the tears that spilled across her cheeks.

"It's perfect," she breathed.

Arya smiled softly and walked to her sister's side, wrapping an arm around her shoulders when Sansa leaned into her. "Happy nameday."

Sansa's eyes widened in realization and Arya laughed. "Did you forget?"

"Well..." Sansa looked sheepish. "I've been so focused on the Burning. I didn't realize." She looked back toward Valgeir and he raised his eyebrows.

"Did you make this?"

He nodded. "I was a carpenter before I was a soldier, and your sister promised me that she would owe me a favor if I helped her with this." He shot a pointed look at Arya and though she smirked, she waved it away with a gesture of mock impatience.

Sansa smiled. "Thank you. Truly. It's beautiful."

"Of course, my lady," he said with an answering smile. "I was happy to do it. For you and for the babe. It isn't going to live an easy life."

A solemn silence fell over them as they realized the weight of his words and in the end, it was broken by Sansa.

"I ought to return. Ulfric is going to notice that I've left, and I don't want him to..." Her face fell and she finished in a whisper, running her fingers longingly across the gift which she knew she could never let be seen. "Worry."

Nodding in understanding, Arya gave her sister a final embrace before letting her go. Sansa walked hurriedly to the Blue Palace and when she opened the door to her chambers, she found Ulfric waiting for her.

"You disappeared from the Burning," he said evenly, though there was a dangerous edge to his tone. Sansa felt her heart begin to race and she closed the door softly behind her, keeping her back against it. "Where were you?"

"I...I ate a few too many of Evette San's lemon cakes," she stammered. "And I began to feel ill. The heat from the Burning was only making it worse, so I just...went for a walk. Arya accompanied me."

His eyes narrowed and he looked at her for a long moment before nodding in acceptance and withdrawing a small box from behind his back.

"I heard it was your nameday."

Though her feigned illness had been nothing more than a hastily crafted lie, Sansa's stomach rolled unpleasantly and her voice escaped in a barely audible whisper. "Yes, my lord."

"Well, come here," he urged, gesturing for her to walk closer. She did so with great hesitation, afraid to be within his reach. Though it was near impossible, she feared that he knew what Arya had given her, and the truth that lurked beneath its crafted surface. When she was standing before him, he placed the box in her hand and smiled.

"I had a gift made for you. Open it."

She did as she was commanded and when she saw what lay within, her heart sank.

"Go on," Ulfric urged. "Put it on."

Silently, Sansa withdrew the ring from within, placing it on her right hand and letting it hang limply in her husband's grasp as he took it in his own.

"You're a Stormcloak now, and the queen besides," he said by way of explanation. "It's past time you wear the sigil to match." The Stormcloak bear snarled in a setting of garish gold, heavy on her finger. When she did not respond, he leaned forward and kissed her. "Happy nameday, Sansa Stormcloak."

Hearing her name from his lips left a sour feeling in her gut and she smiled demurely, hiding her feelings behind a mask of courtesy. When he turned her around and set his fingers to the laces of her gown, she closed her eyes and prayed to any of the gods who would listen.

 _Divines, let this be the year I'm rid of him_ , she pleaded. _By my next nameday, for the sake of my own life and my child's, let me be free._


End file.
